Leverage
by Hyena Cub
Summary: Frank and Joe have their first encounter with professional criminals when they are kidnapped as leverage against their father.
1. Default Chapter

1: A Theft

Frank Hardy was once again facing an opponent in one his and his brother's many cases, and as usual, it was proving to be a highly stubborn adversary. "Prove it!" came the predictable demand from the accused. 

The elder Hardy boy spoke calmly and rationally, a trait he had exhibited when necessary since the age of seven or so. "Okay," he said. "I will." He began to explain, holding up his hand, putting a finger down every time he made a point. 

A month before, the sixth grade students of Bayport Elementary had gotten the opportunity to go to camp for the weekend before school let out, a camp that included things like confidence courses, tales around the campfire, and the like. The idea was to help teach kids to work together, to be self-reliant, and to boost confidence. Obviously, the children needed money and a permission slip. 

One student's family was not as well off as most of the others, and her parents had had to save for a good many months for the girl to be able to go. They had sent a money order and the permission slip with the girl the day of the deadline, in a sealed envelope, to turn into the teacher. This envelope had turned up missing. 

Kaitlyn, the girl whose envelope had gone missing, burst into tears when she found out. She looked everywhere for the envelope, and even went to the teachers for help. They helped her look, of course, even called home to see if she had left it there, but it was to no avail. The teachers suspected it might have been stolen, or at the very least dropped and picked up by someone who did not turn it in. Which, if one thought about it, were very nearly the same thing. 

As the day closed, Kaitlyn sought out eleven year old Frank Hardy among the students filing outside to be picked up by parents or busses. Frank was outside with his brother, for the boys always walked home, but both stopped as Kaitlyn called Frank's name. 

When she told them what happened, Frank frowned a bit. "I heard," Frank said. "Did they find out what happened to it?" 

Kaitlyn shook her head, sniffling a little bit. Her eyes were red, and it was clear that she had cried a good deal that day. "And if I can't find it, I can't go." She wiped her eyes. "You guys are good at solving mysteries, could you try and find out who took it?" The boys had a reputation, mostly among the youth of the school and the neighborhood, of being able to solve just about any case that cropped up. Missing pets, pranksters, people who cheated on tests... They obviously showed the skill to follow in their father's footsteps. 

Frank nodded his head. "Sure," he said to her. "Are you sure that it was stolen, and not just lost?" 

The girl nodded her head. "Yeah, the teachers went over it with me, even called my mom and dad to see if I left it home; they're gonna be mad, I just know it!" 

"Aw, your parents are nice," said Frank. "I bet they won't be mad, not at you, anyway. Okay. Tell me what you did when your parents gave you the envelope." 

Kaitlyn nodded, looking a bit more hopeful, as she began telling Frank about everything she had done that day. She detailed everything, including what pocket of the bookbag she had put the envelope in. "I was so excited about it," she said, clenching her teeth. It was clear she was trying not to cry again. "I didn't think I was gonna be able to go, but my mom and dad surprised me, said they'd saved up for it. And now someone took it!" 

Frank was silent for a moment, while Joe fidgeted. It was always like that when the boys solved mysteries. Joe would be eager to get right in and start getting things done, while Frank would sit and think about it for forever, trying to puzzle it out before they acted. It seemed a strange mix of methods, but for the boys, it worked. "How do you know someone took it?" he asked finally. 

"Well..." Kaitlyn hesitated, and took a big breath. "I guess I don't, for sure, but my bag was opened when I got back to it." 

"Is that when you found it gone?" 

Kaitlyn shook her head. "No, not yet. It was when the teacher wanted us to go get them to turn them in. It wasn't in the pocket I put it in. It wasn't in any pockets, or in my clothes pockets, or -" She was getting upset again, and broke off, clenching her hands in helpless frustration. "And even if I do find it, today was the deadline!" 

Joe frowned slightly. "I bet if you could find it, they'd let you turn it in a little late," he said, but he didn't sound all that certain. 

"Okay," said Frank, looking determined. "So you only left the bag once, and that was while you played in the playground before the school opened," he said, to clarify. "Who else was there?" 

"Not many," Kaitlyn sniffed. She rubbed her eyes, and took a big breath. In the hot, late-spring afternoon, the school was rapidly becoming deserted as the children rushed home. A few of the kids gave the little group strange looks as they passed, but otherwise they were not bothered. 

"Do you remmeber names?" Franks asked patiently. 

"Some. There were a bunch of first and second-graders, and I don't know any of them except my sister. She was there. Only a few from our grade were there, though. Sally Martin, um...Tucker and Miller Graystin were there." She looked up at the brilliant blue of the pre-summer sky as she thought. "And besides me, the only other ones were Julie Sinter, and Colin Grant." 

"Colin Grant?" Joe burst out. "I bet you anything he did it, he's such a jerk!" 

Frank shot his brother a look. "Say it louder, why don't you?" 

Joe stuck his tongue out. "So what? It's not like he can hear me," he said. Frank sure could be a crab sometimes! 

"Still. We can't tell the teacher without some proof, anyways." 

Frank was about to say something else, but Kaitlyn spoke up. "Hey, you know he wasn't there at first, either. He usually gets there early, 'cuz his mom has to go to work early. But he didn't come onto the swings an' stuff until later." 

"Did he say why?" Frank asked. Kaitlyn shook her head. 

"Let's ask the other kids," Joe said excitedly. "I bet one of them saw Colin take it. Or whoever," he added before Frank could lecture him on proof. 

"That's a good idea," said Frank. "We can do that tomorrow before school. We can also talk to the teachers about it, see if they could maybe let you turn it in late if we find it." 

Joe grinned at Kaitlyn. "We'll find it!" And maybe, he added silently, maybe we'll just give that jerk a punch in the nose, too! Joe tended to solve things with his fists more often than his brother did. 

The girl smiled a bit. "Thanks, guys, I hope you guys find it. Even if I can't go on the trip, my mom and dad wouldn't like someone else having one of their money orders. They had to pay for it." 

Frank nodded. "Tomorrow, we'll start our investigation!" Investigation was a term that the boys had recently learned the definition of, and Frank liked to use it as often as possible. Even Joe had to admit, it had a really cool sound to it. Kids solved mysteries, but _real_ detectives conducted investigations! 

The next day, Frank and Joe arrived at school a little earlier than usual. Joe would not be able to do a whole lot, as he was a grade below Frank, and of course they were in separate classes. Frank had just turned eleven, and Joe was two months away from being ten, but the boys were bright and rather ahead of themselves in school. 

Joe did intend to be there when Frank was asking people about the slip. Frank made him promise to be quiet and not accuse everyone in sight, and the younger boy had reluctantly agreed. 

The morning's results weren't all too encouraging. No one had seen anything, except one boy who had seen Colin hanging around the fence before coming to play. But whether it was the same place Kaitlyn's backpack had been, he couldn't remember. 

The two Hardy brothers separated for class, and Joe made Frank promise that he would tell him anything he learned after school. Frank promised. 

During recess, Frank continued his questioning, and found out something very interesting; Kaitlyn had been responsible for Colin being forbidden from participating in the school carnival earlier that spring. Frank remembered that incident, as it had ended up being a holy temper tantrum in the middle of the library, but had not known what the cause of it was. Someone had been writing nasty words in all the library books, and they couldn't figure out who it was. Kaitlyn had caught Colin in the act, and told the librarian, who had then confronted the boy. Needless to say, the principal was told, Colin was given detention, and banned from the carnival. This, Frank reasoned, might just be motive enough for him to steal Kaitlyn's trip money and permission slip. 

"He said he'd get her back for it," the girl who gave the information told him solemnly. "She was afraid he was gonna beat her up for a while, but he didn't. What a chickenguts. I mean not that I want her beat up or anything." 

Before recess ended, Frank spoke quietly to his teacher. He explained the whole situation, and what he had found out, and told her that he wanted to search Colin's desk. It took a bit of persuading, but Mrs. Hillford finally agreed, so long as she was present, and the pair went inside the school to their classroom. Mrs. Hillford unlocked the deserted classroom, and Frank headed directly for Colin's desk. 

Colin's desk was a nightmare; and Frank had thought that his brother was messy! Joe was a neatnik compared to this kid. He frowned as he searched the desk, thinking that he just might not find what he wanted in there. But just as he was about to give up, he spotted a bit of powder-blue paper way down at the bottom, and drew it out triumphantly. It was one of the envelopes that the kids had been given to put their checks and permission slips in – and it had Kaitlyn's name on it! "Found it!" he said, grinning, as he showed his teacher what he'd found. 

Mrs. Hillford frowned slowly as she took the envelope, and uncrumpled it. It was empty. "I wonder what he could have done with the check," she murmured. "Rather, money order." 

"He can't spend it, can he?" Frank asked. "I mean it's got the school's name on it, right?" 

"Actually it should be addressed to the campground, but no, Colin cannot spend it. I believe that we need to call him in here for a little conference. Him and young Miss Kaitlyn." 

Frank nodded seriously, and then asked, "Can my brother be here? I mean he's probably in P.E. right now, but he did help me with the case, I know he'd really want to be here." The boy gave Mrs. Hillford a hopeful look, and she finally relented. 

"All right," she said, going to her desk and scribbling a quick note to the P.E. teacher. "Give this to Mr. Cutter, and you two hurry back, got it?" 

"Yep!" Frank took the note and hurried off. 

Very soon, the two boys stood in the principal's office, with Mrs. Hillford, Ms. Hancock (the principal), Kaitlyn, and Colin. And Colin was demanding that Frank prove his case. 

The adults seemed willing enough for Frank to present his evidence, and he did so, counting off the things that had tipped him off. One, Colin had been seen hanging around the edge of the playground before school the day that the envelope was stolen, and Kaitlyn had left her bag on the edge of the playground while she played. Two, Colin said he'd get her back for telling on him about the library books that he wrote in with pen." 

Colin's face was red with anger, and he took a step forward, his fists clenched. Joe Hardy scowled, his own fists clenched, ready to deck the boy if he took a swing. "So?" he demanded. "You still can't prove I took anything!" 

"I'm not done," said Frank, a hint of impatience in his voice. He didn't like to be interrupted. "I searched your desk during recess –" 

"You searched my desk?" Colin growled incredulously. "That's my desk, you can't do that, you're not supposed to touch other people's desks!" 

"He had permission, you jerk!" Joe said before Frank could reply. 

"Joe." The principal's quiet voice broke into the argument. 

Joe scowled, but he shut up, and backed down for the time being. 

"You're right," Frank agreed. "But I did have permission. I told Mrs. Hillford everything, and she let me look in your desk." He was tempted to tell Colin what a pig he was, but in front of the teachers he thought might be an unwise idea. "And look what I found!" He looked up at Mrs. Hillford, who held up the crumpled up envelope. 

Kaitlyn made a noise that might have been anger or frustration. She was looking at Colin with an expression of mingled hurt and outrage. 

Ms. Hancock looked at it for a moment, then turned to look at Colin, who looked like he might be about to cry. "Why?" she asked him quietly. 

Colin didn't answer him. He stepped up in Frank's face, his pupils dilated with fury. "I hate you, Frank, you're such a suck-up! You're always tattling on people an' buttin' in, you – " 

The Hardy boys' eyes widened as Colin spat the word. The "a"-hole word. It wasn't as if they had never heard one of the kids cussing before, but he did it right in front of the principal! And she wasn't entirely happy about it. "Colin Grant!" Ms. Hancock stood, looking her sternest. "That is enough! I will be calling your parents, and explain to them that their money will be refunded for the camping trip, as you will not be going on it." 

Colin looked at the woman in sheer disbelief. "But-but that's not fair!" 

Kaitlyn gaped at the boy for a moment. "I would've had to stay home if Frank didn't find who took my check!" she cried. 

"So what?" Colin growled. 

As the principal sorted out the argument, Mrs. Hillford turned to Frank and sighed somewhat wearily. "Good work Frank, and Joe. Why don't you go on back to class, all right? We'll get it handled from here." 

Frank nodded. "Okay. Thanks. Will Kaitlyn be able to go on the trip?" 

The teacher smiled. "I'm sure it will be recovered today, the money order, that is. And that makes it only a day late. She will be able to go on the trip." 

Frank grinned, pleased. "Cool! Come on Joe." 

The two boys left the principal's office, congratulated each other briefly on their success, and then headed off to class. 

That night at supper, Frank and Joe told their parents about the case. Fenton nodded. "So did they find the money order, then?" he asked. 

Frank nodded. "Yeah, Kaitlyn told me after school. It was in his backpack. So was the permission slip." 

Fenton smiled. "That's good, then she'll be able to go, after all?" 

Frank nodded again., "Yep! And Colin doesn't get to go at all." 

"That sounds very fair to me," Fenton said. "You two are getting good at this, you know." 

Both boys looked pleased, although Joe's expression was half cockiness. "Thanks," Frank said. 

There was a sniff of disdain from the other side of the table. Fenton's sister, Gertrude, sat there, looking disapproving. "I still think it's a bad idea to let these boys play at being detectives," she said. "Searching a boy's desk, indeed. That's the teacher's job, not the child's job!" 

Frank's pleased expression faded at this belittlement, and he looked down at his food. Joe, on the other hand, openly scowled. A curt hand gesture from their mother prevented the younger Hardy brother from speaking, but it was clear he was angry. 

Fenton's tone was quiet. "They're not playing, Gertrude," he said. "They like helping people, and Frank did nothing without his teacher's permission. Please drop the subject." 

Aunt Gertrude's lips thinned until they seemed to disappear, but she said no more. 

Gertrude had not been living with the Hardys for long. Never married, she had, until recently, lived alone. But an accident in her home that had injured her legs, leaving her unable to reach a phone for two days had worried the Hardys enough that they convinced her to move in with them. Their home was plenty large enough, and that was what family was there for, right? To help? 

And so in the middle of winter, she had moved in. Unfortunately, she was extremely old-fashioned, which seemed odd in this day and age, and she had a sharp tongue. Things were far tenser in the household with her there. Fenton had assured everyone that things would settle down, and everyone would adjust, but he could see his boys and Laura had their doubts. 

After dinner, the boys slunk upstairs to the room they shared, which was in the attic. They had not been very old when they begged to make their room in the attic, and to their parents surprise, they had not wanted separate rooms. It was a full attic, after all, and plenty large enough for two people to share. And so they allowed it, and the boys had slept there since. The two bedrooms on the floor below were used for storage, instead. 

Joe walked over to his hammock and climbed in, frowning. "I hate her, how come she has to stay here?" he sulked. It was a question he often asked as of late. 

Frank shrugged. "Dad says she really loved us, it's just that she thinks being all stern and stuff'll make us 'good boys'..." 

"But we're not bad!" Joe protested. He was hurt, Frank realized. Hurt along with the anger radiated from his words. 

"I know that. I guess she thinks all boys are bad, or something, I dunno. Dad said she shoulda been born a hundred years before she really was." 

"Yeah," Joe said. "Then she wouldn't be here now. She acts like a really old lady from the olden days." 

The boys were silent for a few moments, simply commiserating. 

Frank finally selected a book from the boys' bookcase, and settled into his own bed. Unlike Joe, he preferred a real bed. "I'm glad Dad doesn't do that," he said, staring down at the closed book. 

"Do what?" 

"You know, what Aunt Gertrude did. Act like we're pretending. You know, not taking us seriously." 

Joe nodded. "Yeah, I hate that. Makes me feel dumb or...you know, babyish." 

"Yeah." Frank sighed huffily, got up, and replaced the book, and simply stared gloomily into the warm attic air. 

He always liked the attic. He could come up here any time and feel safe and secure. The wood tones of the walls, the high pointed ceiling, the warmth of the room... After a few moments, he felt his anger beginning to ebb, and finally he shrugged. "Oh well. It doesn't matter what she said, we're still good detectives. And Dad says so, and he's the detective, not Aunt Gertrude." 

"Yeah, I guess so." Joe's tone was still not happy, but it was not quite so miserable as before. 


	2. Stranger Danger

Chapter 2: Stranger Danger 

The next day, there were whispers here and there at school about Frank and Joe's most recent case. A few kids congratulated them, a few told them that they should keep their noses out of everyone else's business; the usual. As the mystery had concerned the sixth grade, Frank got most of the comments, but Joe did get a few here and there. He was, of course, more hotheaded in response to the mean ones than his brother was, but at least he avoided any fights. That night, they told their father about what had gone on, but he was very distracted, and it was Laura that ended up listening to most of their tales. Fenton excused himself from the table early to work on a case. Usually he would tell his family a little of his work, but he seemed unusually close-mouthed about this one. It wasn't as if it were top secret, more as if he were worried and more inclined to brood, rather than discuss it. 

Gertrude was no help. She meant well perhaps, but the fact that she kept telling Fenton he should take break and not work so hard or he'd get an ulcer was not exactly encouraging his morale about the case. 

As the end of the school year progressed, the boys saw less and less of their father, which bothered them both. Joe was rather inclined to whine about it, but Frank convinced him that it would probably just upset their dad to say anything about it. It was his job, after all, why make him feel bad for doing it? Joe eventually agreed. 

Still, the younger Hardy was curious, and was not quite so rigid as his brother concerning following the rules. Not that Frank was an angel, but he was a lot less inclined than Joe to do something he knew he shouldn't. And so it happened that as their father sat one day in his office, the curious Joe crept up on the door for a bit of eavesdropping. Aunt Gertrude and Laura were out shopping, and Frank was at a Boy Scout meeting. 

"...know it is, Sam," Fenton was saying. "I know it's risky, that's why I'm not doing it just yet. I may not do it at all, period. I think they're onto me already, which isn't such an encouraging thought. Whoever these people are, they're good." 

Joe frowned, wondering who "they" were. Bad guys, he assumed, but he had never heard of any bad guys that could beat his father! His dad was the best! He couldn't get outfoxed by any criminal, could he? 

"I'm getting close to something," Fenton said. "I just don't know what! Yeah, I've been threatened a time or two, you know the usual. Stop investigating or you'll die; back off if you value your family; things like that. And there's something about these threats..." he paused, listening for nearly a full minute to whatever Sam Radley was saying on the other end of the phone. "Oh, yeah, I've definitely gone to Chief Collig, filling him in on everything. He's stumped too, which worries me." A pause. "Nope, no fingerprints on the gun, no serial number, no records of the sale of such a firearm. Whoever the killer was, he was too careful. I think we're dealing with a real pro. Yeah. Well, no, I won't try to infiltrate them if they're already onto me, I'd have to have someone else do it – hold on a minute, Sam." Fenton's tone changed to one of puzzlement, and Joe heard him rise from his chair. 

The boy's eyes widened, and he sprinted away from the study, making hardly a noise. He heard the study door open, heard Fenton murmur something, then go back into his office. That had been close! Joe dashed into his room, his eyes wide with alarm, his heart pounding. He flopped on his hammock, slowing his breathing. Fenton would have been very angry had he caught Joe listening in! He tried hard to keep his family apart from his work, mostly to protect them. 

After a moment, when he could no longer feel his heart thudding behind his ribs, Joe began thinking back on what he had heard. Someone was after his dad, which made him mad! He almost hoped that whoever it was broke into their house, then Joe could help get him! He had a baseball bat, he could whack him in the knee! Or maybe a little higher. 

"That would be cool," he said softly to himself. He often thought about what he would do if anyone ever broke into the house. The fantasy usually ended up with him hitting the burglar out with his baseball bat, or something equally heavy and hard. 

He soon tired of this daydreaming, and turned his attention to the boys' video game unit, where he played until Frank got home from his Scout meeting. Once Joe got to a save point in his video game, he shut it off, and told Frank everything he had heard from Fenton's study. Frank scowled at Joe for eavesdropping, but he was curious enough that he didn't even try to scold him for it. The two brothers discussed for a while what it might be that Fenton was working on, and Frank said it sounded like a murder, if there was a gun involved. That particular little discussion continued until supper. 

The next day, both boys had mostly forgotten about the conversation, as life went on as usual. 

Finally the time came for the school year to end and the furor about Colin's money-order theft gradually died down, although Colin did try to frame Frank for some graffiti on the school wall a week before vacation. It was so obvious a frame that Frank didn't even need to investigate before it was found that Colin had done it. He was rather smug to learn through the grapevine that Colin had been sent to counseling. 

The camping trip was scheduled for that very weekend, and Frank could not stop talking about it. Joe, who got out of school the following Wednesday, could not help being envious that his brother got to go. He didn't come right out and say so, but it was evident that he was upset. 

Frank was usually fairly sensitive to his brother's moods, as they were as close as any identical twins ever were. But he _was_ an eleven year old boy, and could not wait to go on this adventure. The boys were both in Scouts (Joe having just earned his Arrow of Light out of the Cub Scouts), but neither had done much camping yet. And this was different than a scout camp. And so, Frank was too excited to see his brother's envy. 

Fenton and Laura noticed though. And so when Joe said he would rather stay home when they brought Frank to the school where everyone was meeting, they both understood. Frank noticed, but again was too excited about his trip to dwell much on it. 

When the boys' parents came back home, they had a little talk with Joe, waiting for this until Aunt Gertrude had retired for the night. They did not scold him, or make him think he had done wrong; the Hardys were not like that. They simply got him to speak about what was bothering him, and did what they could to reassure his feelings. 

"I just...I'm just getting left out again," Joe said, scowling down at his shirt. His hands were in his pocket and he looked like he could either growl, or cry. He seemed to be deciding on one or the other. 

Fenton put an arm around the boy. "I understand, Joe. It's perfectly natural to feel left out. I have an older brother, myself, along with Aunt Gertrude." He chuckled at Joe's surprised look. "Yep, he'd be your uncle. But he lives on the opposite coast, so you and Frank have never met him. And Lord, did I ever feel left out when he was around." 

"How old was he?" Joe asked, interested in spite of himself. 

"He was a bit older than Frank; five years older than I was," Fenton said, smiling a bit. "And he did not want some pest-ish little brother hanging around him all the time. He always got to do things before I did, such as Scouts -" he noted Joe's look of understanding at this, "-and privileges, and skills..." Fenton chuckled and gave his son a gentle shake. "Trust me, I understand how it feels. Frank tries to include you, and he _enjoys_ your company. But sometimes he forgets." 

Joe sighed. "Okay, okay, I know... I just..." 

"I know." Fenton stood, stretching. As the crisis was being averted, Laura excused herself to go to her room, kissing Joe on the forehead. "Come on," said Fenton to Joe. "Let's go into the basement, and look for the photo albums. I'll tell you about my brother." 

"Okay!" Distracted now from his upset, Joe followed his father downstairs, happy to be paid the attention. He and Frank had seen too little of him as of late. 

When Frank returned, Joe did go along to pick him up. He was eager to see him, despite his former anger. And so Sunday afternoon, they picked Frank up from the school, where he stood, looking somewhat tanner than he had upon leaving, and looked like he had had a blast. He chattered on about his weekend, which had included all of Friday and Saturday, and half of Sunday. He told them about the cabins, and of the teams they had been put in. His had been called Tomahawk. He told them about the campfire, where they'd had a storyteller come that had introduced himself to the group by firing an old-fashioned six-shooter; blanks, of course. Everyone had gotten scared by that! 

Joe began looking a little sulky as Frank told his tales, but tactfully said nothing. This time, however, Frank noticed. 

When they got home, Frank looked at Joe. "Hey c'mon, come help me unpack, will you? I'm sure glad to be home, tell you that. I missed you." He caught Fenton's pleased smile as Joe's expression brightened. "And after that, we can go up to the playground if you wanna." 

At this, Joe grinned. "Okay!" He ran upstairs after Frank. 

School ended with the usual chaos of activity; desks that had accumulated papers, pencils, dust, and other assorted odds and ends had to be cleaned out. The classes were given their normal packet of summer activities in horrible purple mimeograph ink. The booklists were handed out, and the children were told the date that school would start the next year. Those going to summer school were given schedules. 

And finally, the last bell rang. The air-conditioned halls of Bayport Elementary emptied amazingly quickly, leaving them silent and bare. The students spilled out into the hot summer air, eagerly breathing their first gasp of freedom. 

"Boy, I can't think of anything better than the first day of summer vacation!" Joe enthused as the boys started home. His backpack was heavy with his papers, books, and belongings, as was Frank's. 

"It's not really vacation, yet," Frank pointed out. "It's the last day of school. It's just that school didn't last all day." It had let out at noon, as it always did on the final day. The administration was wise enough to know that the children would never sit through a full day of school! 

Joe gave his brother a dirty look. "Boy, are you a spoilsport," he said. 

Frank shrugged, and grinned. "That's my job!" 

"I thought your job was being a huge pain in the butt," Joe retorted, smirking. Frank slugged him one in the arm for that, and Joe laughed. "I'm gonna tell Dad you beat me up on the last day of school," Joe said, making it sound like a vicious crime. 

Frank snorted. "Go ahead. He probably knows you deserved it, anyways." 

"I do not!" 

"You do too!" Frank grinned at his brother's look of indignation, and made a face at him. 

"Sheesh, big brothers are the pits...the _arm_pits!" 

This mostly lighthearted bickering continued as the boys walked home in the summer heat. It was a hot one, one the adults called a scorcher. If one were to look down at the sidewalk, he would see heat distortion waves rising up from it. There were dark clouds to the west, but they had not yet covered the sun, which continued to bake the town of Bayport. 

About halfway between school and home, the boys had to pass a construction site, where old apartments were being torn down to make way for newer ones. The old ones had broken down enough that they were eventually unable to withstand further patching. Frank and Joe would sometimes stop and watch the construction. Across the street was a park, separated from the street by a six foot privacy fence. 

As they approached it today, Joe grinned at his brother. "Race you!" he said, and took off running. 

Frank sputtered for only a second before tearing off after him, shouting that he was a cheater, and that he had gotten a head start. And that was usually how Joe did it too, he mused with a smirk. That little twerp! He was the faster of the two, too, what did he need to start off like that for? 

He caught sight of the towheaded boy rounding the corner, around the fence on the edge of the park. Frowning, he lowered his head and increased his speed, determined at least to catch up. But then he heard something that made him feel cold, even in the day's stifling heat. An alarmed yell, not a play yell, from his brother. "Hey!" he heard Joe cry. "Lemme go, Frank, help! Heeeelp, lemme go!" 

As Joe's voice rose in what sounded like panic, Frank forced a bit more speed from his legs. What had Joe gotten into? Had he fallen? Did someone grab him? Did... 

As he neared, he heard the sound of a fight, and heard an adult voice he didn't recognize growl, "Stop it, you freakin' brat!" He heard the sound of a fist on skin, and heard the adult grunt, and then hiss in anger. By this point, Frank was there, and as he rounded the corner, his eyes widened in shock. Someone _did_ have his brother! A scrawny man with long, greasy brown hair held Joe around the waist, and the younger boy was fighting like the devil himself, yelling at the top of his lungs. The adult tried several times to cover his mouth, but after getting bitten twice, he stopped. 

"Hey!" Frank screamed, after a moment of shock. "Hey, leave him alone!" The older boy scowled furiously, stripping his heavy bookbag from his back as the adult spun to look at him. He swung the bag as hard as he could at his brother's assailant, knocking him off balance so that he staggered. He did not let go of Joe, however, who was kicking his feet as hard as he could. 

"Jake, I could use some friggin' help!" the adult growled, as Frank picked up the bag for another swing. 

"No names, moron!" came a hissed reply from on the street. Neither boy had noticed the car parked by the side of the road; Frank only now realized that it was there, and he looked in time to see another man exit the car. This one's brown hair was cut short, and looked more or less clean, unlike the man who had grabbed Joe. Frank backed up a step, angling his attack with his bag towards this new threat, but this one was ready for it. He grabbed the bag and flung it aside, grabbing Frank's arm as he did. He pulled sharply, making Frank gasp with the sudden pain of a sprained wrist. "Get the brat in the car!" the new man, presumably Jake, snarled. 

The first man obeyed, lunging for the car, where he could pin Joe to the seat. He did so, breathing hard, and simply stayed like that while Jake got a better grip on Frank. "No!" Frank cried, now afraid. "No, help!" he screamed. "Heeeelp! Poliiiice! Help! Stranger!" It seemed childish, but it was what he had been taught to scream if someone ever tried to take him. But unknown to him, the construction crews were not working that day in the record heat, and the park was deserted for the same reason. By sheer misfortune, no other children walked the same way Frank and Joe did. 

Frank got little chance to say more, as he too, was forced into the car. By that time, a now-tearful Joe's hands had been tied behind him, and his kicking feet were bound as well. His assailant dumped him unceremoniously on the floor, while Jake gave Frank and same treatment. "Keep them down!" he hissed at the first man, as he exited the car. He picked up Frank's pack, and Joe's, which had been flung into the street. He tossed these into the trunk, then slid into the driver's seat. 

The long-haired man put his hand around Joe's throat, and squeezed. "I swear, you little brat, if you don't stay quiet I'll throttle you; we only need one of you, you know!" 

Joe made a small sound of fear and nodded frantically, as the car started, and headed down the street. Jake did not speed, as that was one good way to attract attention. Satisfied that he had intimidated the boys into silence, at least for the time being, the first man sat back and glared. 

Frank and Joe huddled together on the floor of the backseat, their eyes riveted on the man who sat there. There were tears on Joe's face, and Frank was struggling to avoid crying, himself. 

The car rode for a good distance, at least across town, so far as Frank could tell. Despite his fear, he was trying as hard as he could to remember the details of the greasy-haired man's face, his clothing, his hair and eyes. While Joe's fearful glance was concentrating on glaring at him, Frank was _seeing_ him. Remembering every detail his observant eye could catch. He noticed that he had a small scar on the left side of his mouth, and as he looked over the rest of his body, noticed his left hand also had a similar scar. Frank wasn't sure what made the scars, but they appeared to have been from the same sort of thing. Knife wounds? 

After ten minutes or so of this, the greasy man seemed to be aware that Frank's gaze was more than casual. As he narrowed his eyes, peering closer at the boy, he could see that his eyes were not just gazing, but _noticing_ him. He growled and backhanded Frank across the face, making his yelp in pained shock. He leaned close and grabbed the boy's shirt. "Keep your eyes on the floor, brat, less you want a hood shoved over your head. I see those eyes rise once, and that's what you'll get. Got it?" 

Swallowing hard, shaken, Frank nodded his head, and turned his glance to the floor. When Joe was threatened with the same thing, he also looked down. 

Now, Frank was crying quietly, but he also seemed very angry. "It's okay, Joe," he whispered. His voice was steady. "They...the police'll come." But at a light kick and a hissed order to shut up, the boys quieted. There was nothing to do but wait out the ride. 

The ride itself took nearly an hour, and at the speed limit, that took the little group far into the outskirts of the city. Frank tried to keep track of the twists and turns that the car took, but after a while, he couldn't keep track, or remember. He did remember a name, though: Jake. He would remember what they looked like, and what color the car was. He would be able to help the police when he got out of this. 

_If_ he got out. 

The elder Hardy swallowed hard, trying not to think along those lines. He glanced at his brother, who looked miserable. Frank didn't feel all too terrific, himself. His wrist throbbed, and his face was sore from being smacked. Still, he nudged the younger boy and managed a sort of sick grin. When Greasy-Hair wasn't looking, he stuck out his tongue at him. This got a tiny smile from Joe, who gave Frank a grateful look. 

The ride ended after the car had been on a very bumpy road for at least ten minutes. As the boys realized this, they looked up, but from their vantage point, could see nothing but sky, and the leaves of trees. Jake got out of the seat, and the boys looked up to see Greasy-Hair glaring at them. It was then that Joe noticed the man's hand was red and a bit swollen. That was where I bit him, he thought with some satisfaction. I wish I'd broken the skin! 

Once Jake was out, he came around to one side of the car, and opened the door. He nodded to Greasy-Hair, who got out on the other side, which blocked the boys from trying anything. Not that we could, Frank thought with some annoyance. They tied us up! 

The two men brought the boys out of the car, and they got a glimpse of trees, and a dirt road. Frank looked around to where they were being carried, and saw that it looked like a little, one-story house. It might have been white once, but the dust of the road had covered it enough to make it look grayish tan. But then they were borne inside, too quickly to catch more than a glimpse. 

It was dark in the house, and there was some bumping around until one of the men turned on the light. Joe was trying to fight again, but it was very awkward, and he was tired and sore from being tied up for so long, and his struggles got him exactly nowhere. He soon ceased. 

"Who are you guys?" Frank asked. 

"Quiet," one of the men growled, as they carried the two young captives across a tiny living room. The place was fairly clean, if a little cluttered and small. Apparently it was being used by someone, presumably the two men that had kidnapped the boys. 

Frank and Joe were dumped rather ungracefully on the cement floor of an unfinished basement, and then left. The light was turned off as the men climbed the stairs, and both boys heard the door close and lock. 

Frank and Joe fighting   
Fight 

Part 3 

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	3. Discovery

Chapter 3: Discovery

Once the men were gone, Frank closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. He heard a whimper from his brother, and realized the younger boy was trying hard not to cry aloud, and not quite succeeding. "It's okay," Frank said, wincing a bit as he struggled to sit up. Using his feet, he scootched himself closer to his brother; close enough to touch. Joe sniffled and curled up next to Frank, shivering a little in damp basement. 

"Who _are_ they?" Joe asked plaintively. "Why'd they kidnap us? What do they want?" 

"I-I dunno," Frank said. "Did they hurt you?" 

"N-no...just a little when we were fighting. You?" 

"Not real bad...I think that jerk sprained my wrist, though," said Frank, grimacing a little as he mentioned it. He had been keeping his arms from moving much, but it still hurt. 

Joe sniffled again, but his voice was indignant. "That jerk! Boy...I wish I'd bit him harder!" 

"Yeah, I saw his hand." 

"Yeah." There was a sort of savage satisfaction in the child's voice. 

The two boys were silent for a little while, as there was not a whole lot more they could think of to say. And then: "My arms hurt." 

Frank sighed. "I know. Mine too. I-I guess it's from being tied up." The boy paused, and moved away from Joe a little bit. "Hold on a sec," he said. "Maybe...maybe I can -" Frank cut off and there was the sound of some struggling, some grunting, a hiss of pain, and then Frank's voice, through clenched teeth. "I can't get my hands in front. Maybe you can, Joe, you're more flexible." 

"I-okay," said Joe. "I'll try." 

Turned out that Joe did manage, through a lot of effort, to maneuver his hands underneath his hind end, and over his legs and feet. "I did it!" he gasped. 

"Great!" Frank enthused. "Good job! Great...get your feet untied, then see if you can untie me, okay?" 

"O-okay." 

Frank and Joe had not experienced serious danger before this moment, but it was clear that the courage and instinct was strong with them. They were very scared, but they could control the fear enough to try and do what they had to. However, the knots were tight, and Joe's fingers were not strong enough to get them untied. He had to use his teeth to free his hands, and was about to do the same for the ropes around his ankles when the door above opened. 

The Hardy brothers gasped, looking up in alarm as they were caught red-handed, as it were. The man that had opened the door, Jake, looked surprised for a moment and then laughed quietly. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You _are_ Fenton Hardy's brats, after all." 

Joe scowled, but didn't say anything. 

"Doesn't matter, I guess, you were to be untied, anyway. You'll be down here a while, wouldn't want you to not be able to eat, and starve to death just yet now would we?" Jake smiled a nasty little smile, as he descended the stairs. Frank and Joe had not missed the "just yet" part of that comment. 

The boys shrank back from Jake as he approached, but all he did was kneel down and work off the ropes around Joe's ankles, and pull him to his feet. "Upstairs, kid. There's someone who wants to talk to you." 

"Hey hold on!" Frank protested, finding himself fearful to be separated from his brother. 

"Shut up brat, he'll be back down if he doesn't tick me off too badly." He dragged Joe towards the stairs. 

Joe limped at first, as he had stiffened up from being bound so long, but he didn't fight quite yet. Even if he got free, he would not leave without his brother, so there was no sense in fighting. Instead, he glared. 

The boy was dragged up into the main room, the living room they had passed before getting to the basement door. The man let go his iron grip on Joe's arm as he pulled him over to a table with a phone on it. Greasy-Hair was there as well, holding the receiver of the phone. "Here, brat," Greasy-Hair said. "Someone wants to talk to you." 

Joe looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and looked at the phone. His dad or mom, he thought. It had to be one of his parents. As eager as he was to speak to either of them, it occurred to him that the men _wanted_ him to speak to his parents, probably to prove that yes, they had the boys captive. Joe crossed his arms, scowled, and looked up at Jake with the most stubborn look he could muster. 

"Well?" Greasy-Hair growled. "I don't have all day kid, take the blasted phone." 

Joe's scowl deepened, and he shook his head. 

Greasy-Hair narrowed his eyes. "Stubborn little brat!" 

Behind Joe, a thunderous look of anger came over Jake's face. He considered flinging the kid against the wall and getting the other kid up here to talk, but instead he took something out of his pocket. It was a cigarette lighter, one that had a little wire coil that heated up, that could be used when it was windy. He clicked this on, and pressed the little red-hot wire against Joe's arm. 

Obviously not having expected this, Joe yelped and jerked away from the lighter, spinning around to see what it was that had just hurt him. He saw Jake holding the still-lit lighter, smirking at him. "Owww, that hurt, you jerk!" Joe cried. 

Jake clicked off the lighter. "It was supposed to. Now get on the friggin' phone before I do worse to you." 

Joe clenched his fists, and glanced down at his arm. There was a small burn there, the shape of the lighter's wire coil. "Fine," he said, snatching the phone from Greasy-Hair's hand. "H-hello?" 

"Joe? Joe, are you all right?" It was Fenton Hardy, and he sounded worried. 

Joe considered saying that no, he was _not_ all right, but even he could tell that his dad was very worried. "Yeah...just mad." 

"Did they hurt you? Where's Frank?" 

"No, just a little...Frank's downstairs, they – hey!" Joe's sentence ended in a furious outcry as the phone was jerked from his hands. "Give it back!" 

"Get him back downstairs," Jake growled, then turned his attention back to the phone. "That's enough, Hardy, you know we're not screwing around." 

Greasy-Hair grabbed Joe's arm and dragged him back towards the basement door. "Not fair, you didn't lemme talk, let go!" Joe protested, again fighting. 

The man said nothing, only shoved the boy in through the door, and slammed it. Joe stumbled, very nearly falling down the stairs, and had to catch himself on the railing. He heard the door locked, and once he had his balance, kicked the door as hard as he could. 

Weeping a little again, he felt around for a light switch. He did find one, and the basement was lit brightly by the bare bulb on the ceiling. Joe saw his brother, still tied up, in the center of the floor, and crept downstairs to him. 

"Are you okay?" Frank asked concernedly. 

"Yeah..." Joe scowled and rubbed the burn on his arm. "That jerk put a burn on me though, I gotta kick him where it counts for that." 

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Frank laughed a little. "Don't bother, there's nothing there." 

Joe blinked, but then understood what the comment had meant. Despite himself, he laughed a little, wiping his eyes. "Yeah, bet neither of them do." He knelt down beside Frank and worked on getting the ropes off his hands. It took him a great deal of time, and he had to use his teeth, but he finally managed it. 

Frank brought his aching arms in front of him and stretched a little, then looked at his injured arm. It's sprained, all right, he thought. Just like when I hurt it at Scout camp that one time. He had sprained his other wrist then, having fallen down a short incline during a hike. The boy's wrist was swollen, and a little bruised, and had the imprints of the rope on it. "Ow," he said, his voice unsteady. 

"You okay?" 

"Yeah, it just hurts." Frank sighed and stood up, looking around the basement. 

There was not a whole lot to see. The unfinished basement had a bare, cracked cement floor and cinderblock walls. It was not much bigger than a standard bedroom, and there was nothing in it except a support pole in the middle. There were pipes sticking out of the wall where a washer and a dryer were supposed to be, but there was neither there. 

"This sucks," Frank said dismally, sitting down again. He had paced the room a few times, but soon tired of that. 

"Yeah." Joe wiped his eyes and curled up next to Frank, who put an arm around him. 

"Dad'll find us. Or the cops will," Frank reassured him. Fenton Hardy was one of the best detectives in the east, maybe the whole country! Certainly he could find him and Joe before the bad guys did something undesirable. 

At the Hardy household, Fenton slammed the phone down on the receiver in an unusual show of temper. He turned to Laura and Gertrude, who were both in his study with him. They had worried when the boys didn't come home from school when they usually did, and when they were two hours late, Fenton had gone out looking for them. When he came home empty-handed, he and Laura made the decision to call the police. 

They had not had the chance to call anyone, however, as the phone had rung. Fenton answered it, and was shocked and furious to hear a voice on the other end telling him that they had his sons, and if he wanted to see them breathing again, he had better back off in his investigation. Fenton had demanded to speak to one of them, proof as it were. And that had been granted. 

Whichever of his sons they had brought up, he refused to speak at first, and Fenton thought with a sort of distracted fondness that it must be Joe. When he heard him cry out, though, he had begun to shake in anger at the thought that someone had just hurt his son. They had not spoken for nearly long enough, Fenton thought. Afterwards, the man who called repeated his warning: stop investigating and once they'd completed their business, the boys would be left somewhere, and directions to their location sent to the Hardys. Refuse, and directions to one of the boy's bodies would be sent. Refuse further, and... well Fenton got the idea. How would he be sure that the boys remained unharmed, though? When he asked that, the man had agreed to let the boys talk to him, briefly, once each day. 

"Fenton, are they all right?" Laura asked, her facial features taut with worry. 

"Yes," Fenton said. 

"What-what did they want?" 

Fenton sighed. "What I expected. They want me to stop investigating." 

Aunt Gertrude made a sound of indignation. "Some nerve!" she exclaimed, scowling wrathfully. Sharp tongue or not, she _was_ fond of her nephews, and the idea that someone had kidnapped them infuriated her. Fenton had the fleeting notion that he should just send his sister after the kidnappers. "Well, did you get a trace on them?" 

"No," said Fenton. "My equipment's not exactly top of the line, and they were not on the phone long enough." 

"Well," said Gertrude. "Why aren't we calling the police, then?" 

Fenton shot her a look. "We are," he said. "I'm their father, don't you think I'll be doing everything I can to get them back?" He picked the phone up again, calling the police station. 

Gertrude made a "hmph" sort of noise, but backed off. Unfortunately, she often seemed to think that she was the only one in the household who could think and act sensibly. 

Laura sighed. "Come on, Gertrude, I could use a cup of tea. Would you like one?" 

"Yes, yes I suppose that would sit well," the older woman agreed, and the two left Fenton alone in his study. 

"Chief," said a voice. "There's a phone call for you." It was the desk sergeant, sounding happy to have something to do. It had been, thankfully, very quiet in the office as of late. 

"Who is it?" growled the voice from the office. As usual, the chief was busy, and his mood surly. 

"It's that dick, Fenton Hardy," came the voice. 

There was silence for a moment, and then the chief strode out of his office, scowling. "'Dick', sergeant?" he said, his tone that of disbelief. "Did I hear you call Fenton Hardy a dick?" 

The young sergeant looked blankly at the chief for a moment, and then his eyes widened. "Oh! No, no, not that kind of a -" The young sergeant's face went red. "Um, no, you know, a dick, a detective, you know, chief. A private eye." 

Chief Collig looked at the man for a moment evenly, and then finally shook his head. "You've been reading too many old detective stories, sergeant," he finally said. "From now on, refrain from using your mystery novel slang in this office." 

The sergeant turned yet redder. "Yes, sir," he said, sitting down again behind the tall desk. 

Wondering why it was he had to baby-sit today, Chief Collig walked back into his office, hit a button on his phone, and connected with his call. "Hardy? Collig here." 

"Good to hear you, Chief," came the voice. Fenton sounded tense and upset, and Collig paid full attention. "Ezra, my boys have been kidnapped." 

"What? You're joking," said Collig, frowning. 

"Afraid not. I wish I were." 

"Crap... Okay, Hardy, give me all the info you can, I'll get someone working on it." 

Fenton relayed the story to Chief Collig, starting with the boys being late home from school, and ending with the phone call. 

"And you couldn't get a trace?" Collig asked. 

"No, he wasn't on the line long enough. My tracing equipment isn't fast enough. But he will call the same time tomorrow and let me speak to them." 

"Okay, first thing I'll do, then, is send a couple of officers over to set up some better equipment, in case they call again. Did you hear anything in the background? Cars, planes, anything?" 

"No." Fenton's voice sounded frustrated. "Nothing. The connection wasn't fabulous, but even so..." Fenton trailed off, and then said, "Actually, it seemed to me that they might have been somewhere away from the city. Quiet, bad connection." 

Collig nodded. "Quite possible. And so this has something to do with your current case. Hold off investigating it, at least for a day or two. See if we can't find the boys and get them safe before you continue. Is it a matter of lives at stake if you don't solve it quickly?" 

"No, it's not, not so far as we know. I'll contact my client and explain the situation. I knew him way back when. I'm sure he'll understand." 

"Good. Okay, Fenton, hang tight, all right? We'll get them back." 

"Thanks, chief." 

Fenton hung up the phone and put his head into his hands. In all the years he had worked in law enforcement, he himself had been at risk of harm, but had never thought that his family would be truly at risk. They had been threatened, of course, but he had always been able to protect them; so he thought. "Guess I was just lucky 'til now," he muttered to himself. 

There was a shadow in the doorway. Startled, Fenton looked up to see his wife there, a steaming cup in her hands. "Made some tea if you want," said Laura. 

Fenton managed a sort of smile, and nodded. "Thanks, Laura. This is just -" 

Laura came in and put an arm around him. "We'll get them back," she said softly, closing her eyes. Fenton could tell she was shaking, and put his own arms around her. They stood that way for a few moments before Fenton sat back down at his desk and took a small sip of the hot tea. 

"You staying in here?" 

"Yes," Fenton said. "The chief's sending over some equipment, and an officer will be present the next time they call," Fenton said. 

"Okay. I'll be in the living room if you need me, okay?" 

"Okay, Laura. Thank you." 

Fifteen minutes later, a knock on the door was answered by Gertrude, who stood back to let the officer inside. It was the desk sergeant and a police detective, who had been sent with the trace equipment to the Hardy home. They were directed to Fenton's study, and greeted by Fenton, who stood to shake hands. 

"I'm Detective Berkley, and this is Sergeant Hanscom." 

Fenton smiled a bit. "The sergeant and I know each other." 

"Good. All right, I'm here to set up this tracer on your telephone, I am told the kidnappers will call back tomorrow afternoon?" 

Fenton nodded. "Yes, they're letting me talk to Frank and Joe then, about the same time as today. Three PM or so." He stood back and let the detective go about attaching and connecting the equipment. "Okay," said the detective finally, stepping back. "Sergeant Hanscom is gonna test this out, by calling from the squad car. This tracer is a good deal faster than yours, and it should work after a minute of conversation." 

The sergeant left the house, and a moment later, the phone rang. Fenton picked it up. "Hardy residence." 

"Hey, Mr. Hardy, it's me," said Hanscom. You doin' okay?" 

"As okay as I can under the circumstances." 

"Understandable. All right, we have to stay on the line for a minute, literally, and we'll see if the trace works." 

After a minute of conversation, there was a beep from the tracer. The detective looked down at the little screen, and nodded. "Okay, it's working just fine." 

Fenton relayed this to the sergeant, who acknowledged, and hung up. Soon he had joined the other two men in the study. 

"All right," said Detective Berkley. "We'll be back tomorrow, around two o'clock. Hopefully we can get a lock on their location." 

Fenton nodded, and shook the man's hand. "Thanks, detective," he said. "I really appreciate it." 

"Hey, anytime, Hardy. All right, hang in there, we'll get them back." He clapped Fenton briefly on the shoulder, and then he and Hanscom left the room. 

That night, Fenton went to bed late, but Laura was still awake, waiting for him. She didn't say anything, just held him. Neither got much sleep that night. 


	4. The Great Escape

Chapter 4: The Great Escape

Three days went by. For Frank and Joe, these days were the longest of their lives. Someone came down twice each day with a tray of food; sometimes sandwiches and water, sometimes something from some cheap fast food place or another. It wasn't really enough for two boys their age, but at least they weren't being starved. 

At the end of the first day, Joe, kicked the door as hard as he could for several minutes, until Greasy-Hair threw it open and snarled at him to knock it off. Joe recoiled a step at the man's upraised fist, but he still said what was on his mind: he needed to pee. 

Greasy-Hair slammed and locked the door, leaving Joe thinking that his comment had been ignored, but five minutes later the man opened the door again and stood there while Jake brought a heavy-duty bucket down to the basement. He put it in the corner, glared at the boys, then left once more. 

Joe wrinkled his nose at the thought of using it, but he urinated into it, anyway. Frank had also made use of it before the night was over. The two boys did not sleep until they were too tired to remain awake, and ended up curled up next to each other under the wooden stairs. 

After that, it was a mix of boredom, anger, and fear, all alternating. Joe had gotten into the habit of kicking the door when he wanted to annoy their captors, and usually got someone to either pound on the door and threaten him, or open the door and snarl at him to be quiet. So far as the boys could tell, there was someone there all the time. Mostly it was the two men, Jake and Greasy-Hair, but sometimes they saw a woman that looked about their father's age. 

But aside from mealtimes, and the times someone came in to threaten them, the boys saw no one but each other. After a while, Joe stopped antagonizing them, after Frank mentioned the possibility of them actually carrying out their threats. Joe did not think that being dumped in the river would be a fantastic end to this misadventure. 

Sometimes the boys would play little word games to relieve the awful boredom, but that got old after a while, especially with Joe being as hyperactive as he was. The younger Hardy brother was going nearly insane from being cooped up, and Frank wasn't entirely thrilled about it, either. "They could at least give us some books or something," he grumped halfway through the second day. 

At least they were being allowed to call their parents, one at a time. Frank heard, one time while being brought up for the phone call, something about a tracing system. Jake was telling Fenton that he knew he'd gotten the cops involved, and were trying to trace, and because of that would not let the boys talk for more than thirty seconds or so. He hung up the phone between conversations, and only let one of the brothers up at once. Besides ensuring that the call didn't get traced, it discouraged whoever they brought up from trying to run, as he would have to leave the other behind if he did. 

Mostly, the boys were simply held in the basement, with little to do. They had the light, but that was about it; although Greasy-Hair seemed to like to turn it off whenever he left the basement, which was highly annoying. Joe usually ran upstairs and turned it back on, scowling angrily at the door. 

As the third day began to drone on, Frank and Joe Hardy were going stir crazy. They were actually looking forward to mealtimes, if only because it was a break in the monotony. Their conversations with their father (and sometimes their mother) ended up being the highlight of the day. 

After today's phone call, Frank was actually crying quietly. Joe looked at him, a little shocked. It wasn't as if he had never seen Frank cry before, but it was not a common occurrence; Joe usually was the one who cried. "A-are you okay?" he asked after a moment, somewhat alarmed. "They didn't hit you or anything did they?" 

Frank sniffed and got some Kleenex from beside the toilet - they had convinced their captors to give them _something_ to wipe themselves with – and blew his nose. "I just - I miss Mom and Dad. And I wanna go home." He scowled and wiped his eyes with his dirty hands. They had not been given a chance to bathe in any way, shape or form, and both brother were quite dirty by that point. The basement wasn't exactly clean. 

"Yeah." Now that Frank had mentioned it, Joe felt like crying, too. And then he glowered instead. "I wonder if Dad knows where we are, yet." 

"Of course not, or he'd be here beating the bad guys up," Frank said, as if this were the most logical thing in the world to think. 

"Oh, yeah I guess so," Joe said sullenly. 

Frank sighed, and then looked around the dismal little basement for what seemed like the thousandth time. Then he frowned. "Joe, is that a window up there?" 

Joe looked up, noticing a wide indentation in the thick wall, where a narrow basement window might be. "Maybe," he said, walking until he stood right below it. "But they painted it, or something." 

"You think we could fit through it?" 

Joe blinked. "Maybe, but how would we get it open? There isn't anything to stand on, and I can't reach it." 

"Me neither, we'd have to stand, one of us stand on the other's shoulders. But if we _could_ get it open -" Frank pitched his voice lower than it had been, almost to a whisper. "We could get out and call Dad, and tell him where we are." 

Joe looked excited at the idea. "Yeah!" he whispered. "That'd show them, if we escaped! Let's do it!" 

Frank nodded, also looking eager, the tears forgotten on his face. "Okay, you're smaller, you climb up first," Frank said, crouching down. "Wait, take your shoes off first, though." Joe nodded and sat down, pulling his sneakers off. Then he climbed up onto Frank's back, and then began the laborious job of climbing up onto his shoulders. Joe shook with unsteadiness as he tried to balance on Frank's shoulders, but he did manage not to fall as he inspected the window. Trying not to be too noisy, he tapped it, scratched at the paint, and felt all around it, trying to find how it opened. He did discover a handle at the top that was painted solidly to the window frame, and he could not pry it loose. He made a noise of frustration, and slammed his hands into the glass. 

Below, Frank winced at the noise. "Get down!" he hissed to his brother. 

Joe frowned, but jumped down from Frank's shoulders. They both heard the door lock being clicked, and ran to the opposite side of the basement. Frank sank down against the wall and tried to look nonchalant, and Joe stood with his arms crossed, scowling at the door. 

The woman opened it, and peered inside. "What are you two _doing_ in here?" she demanded. 

"Nothing," Joe said, his tone sulky. "Leave us alone." 

The woman looked hard at him for a moment, then glanced around the room. Seeing nothing amiss, she gave Joe a dark look and closed the door again. The lock clicked closed, and both boys breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Way to go," Frank said, giving Joe a mildly baleful look. 

"Well, I got mad," the younger boy said by way of defense. "Let's try it again, I won't hit it anymore." 

Frank nodded, and stood up. "Okay." 

Again, it took a little while for Frank and Joe to get themselves in position; Frank could not help as much as he would normally be able to, because of his sprained wrist. But finally Joe made it onto his shoulders once more. He tried and tried to get _something_ loose so that he could pry the window open, but he had little luck. He had to get down and the boys had to rest three times before Joe started to cry in sheer frustration. "There's a stupid window we could get out of!" he fumed. "But I can't get the stupid thing open!" He clenched his fists angrily. 

"Shhh!" Frank said, glancing at the door. He sat down, looking wearied by holding his brother up for so long a time. "We'll get it, we just need...we need something to scrape all that paint off, at least around the edges." 

"Yeah, I think it's got, I dunno, caulk, or glue, or something holding the handle in. But we don't have anything to scrape it with!" 

The escape talk came to a stop when they heard the lock click once more. Jake was there with the boys' second meal. That meant that it was nearly nighttime, so far as the boys could tell. The man set the tray on the top step, and then left without a word. 

Frank went up and grabbed the tray, but then winced as a pang went through his wrist, and he growled. He balanced one side of the tray on his arm, while his uninjured hand held the other side. He was very hungry, though, and he picked up one of the two hamburgers that were on the tray. 

As he and Joe ate, Frank thought. There was absolutely nothing in the little basement that they could use to pry the window open, but surely there was _some_ way? 

Joe wolfed his food, as usual, and downed the soda that he had been given. He would have loved to have some milk, but all they had been given was either water or soda. He scratched an itch on his head, then sighed and leaned against the support pole. "I wanna go home," he whispered plaintively. 

"Yeah, I know," Frank said, putting an arm briefly around him. Then he finished eating, and pushed the tray away from him. He never thought he would admit it, but he was really wanting to take a bath. He stared at his feet for a few moments, brooding, but then he frowned. "Hey..." He took one of his sandals off and examined it. "Hey, I found something to scrape the paint and stuff off!" 

"Yeah?" Joe looked interestedly at the sandal, and his expression fell. "The buckle?" he said, looking at it with disbelief. "That'd take forever!" 

"Yeah, but at least it could work! Come on, Joe, we gotta at least try it!" 

Joe sighed, but nodded. "Okay, let's try it." 

Frank worked the buckle off of his sandal, and handed it to Joe. Then he helped the younger boy get back up onto his shoulders. Man, I'm gonna be sore, Frank thought. 

Joe, buckle in hand, contemplated the window. With a shrug, he began scraping at the paint and caulk that held the window shut. The handle, first. 

Joe kept this up for several minutes, until his fingers started cramping up. He winced, and stopped. "Frank I gotta get down for a minute," he said. 

"Okay. You want me to try it next time?" 

Joe thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. My fingers are all sore." Joe hopped down, stumbled, steadied himself, then handed the buckle over to Frank. The boys rested for several minutes, and then it was Frank getting up on Joe's shoulders. The younger boy staggered against the weight, but once he had the wall for balance and support, he was all right. 

This went on for at least two hours, switching back and forth. They were both beginning to get very discouraged, but they persevered, as they were making progress. 

Finally, when Frank was scraping at the window, the handle at the top finally came loose when he tugged on it. He stifled the urge to yell, as he very nearly fell backwards off of Joe's shoulders. He kept his grasp on the window and held on, beaming. "It came loose!" he whispered down to Joe, who grinned up and shook his fist in triumph. 

"Cool! Will it open?" he asked. 

"I dunno." Frank pulled hard on the handle, but it did not budge. No, he thought. No, this wasn't fair! They'd scraped at this thing all night, it seemed, it _had_ to open! Growling with frustration, the boy yanked hard on the thing. 

This time, he did fall, as the window suddenly broke free of the many layers of paint that had coated it. He cried out as he hit the floor, luckily not landing on the arm that had been hurt. 

"Frank, are you okay?" Joe whispered, kneeling next to his older brother. 

Frank nodded, wincing and sitting up. He coughed a few times, the breath knocked out of him. 

Joe looked up, realizing for the first time that it was raining outside, and fairly hard, too; the thunderstorms that had threatened Bayport the day the boys were kidnapped were still sweeping across the east coast. A very low rumble of thunder sounded, and a waft of fresh, rain-filled air drifted into the musty basement. Joe took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He never thought that outside air could feel so good! 

After a moment, Frank stood, and made an urgent "come on" gesture. "They might've heard that," he whispered to Joe. He looked up at the skinny, horizontal window, which had opened at the top. The window space was just big enough for the boys to be able to fit. 

"Wait, my shoes!" Joe hissed. He nearly dove to the ground where he had left them, and shoved them onto his feet. He tied them as quickly as he could, then went back to where Frank stood by the window. 

"Okay," Frank said. He had his sandals sticking out of the side-pockets of his shorts, as he didn't want to take the time to try and fix the buckle back on. He wanted to get out as quick as possible. Wasn't that what their dad always told them? In detective work, if you got caught by the bad guy, get as much distance between you and them as humanly possible. Most anything else can wait until it's safe. 

"How do we do this?" 

Frank bit his lip. "I-I dunno if I can get you out, Joe. You just barely reach on my shoulders, I dunno if I can push you with just one hand." 

"That's okay," Joe said confidently. Now that they had managed to get the window open, he found that his confidence had returned. "I can climb out." 

"Okay," said Frank. "Okay, how will I get out?" 

"Maybe I can find a rope?" 

Frank frowned. "I definitely know I can't climb out, I'd better go first. That way you can climb out if I find a rope." 

Joe bit his lip. "You won't leave me, will you?" It seemed a silly thing to think, especially since Joe knew Frank never would, but he was still scared at being left alone in the unfriendly basement. 

Frank blinked, and looked a bit hurt. "No way!" he said. "I wouldn't ever do that!" 

Looking reassured, Joe nodded. "Okay...get on." Though weary, Joe stood still as Frank climbed up onto his shoulders. The older boy grasped the brick ledge on the ground outside the window, and began hoisting himself up. Joe took a hold of Frank's bare feet and pushed as far as he could reach. He winced as he watched his brother struggle to get out of the window, but silently cheered when he succeeded. 

Frank, grinning, stuck his face back in the window. "Boy, I'm glad there wasn't a screen. I'll be right back!" 

Joe grinned back as Frank's face drew away from the window, and took in a big breath. He glanced nervously at the door; they usually didn't check on the boys after the meal unless they were being very noisy, and he hoped that they did not check this day, either. A louder clap of thunder startled him, but after a moment he was glad of it. Thunder would mask any noise they made. He wondered what would happen if someone came down there while Frank was gone. 

After about five minutes, Joe heard a noise right outside the window. He tensed, and then smiled once he saw it was Frank. "Did you find a rope?" he asked. 

"Better," Frank said with a small laugh. A moment later, two metal slats were being pushed through the window. Joe frowned, wondering what the heck his brother had found, when he realized it was a ladder! He laughed softly in disbelief. A ladder would be a lot easier to climb than a rope! 

With some maneuvering, Frank managed to get the ladder pointing more or less downwards, and Joe caught the end of it. Once it was all the way inside, Joe clambered up, and slipped out of the window. 

The two brothers hugged briefly, and then Frank pointed. "I-I think the road's this way. C'mon! Let's go, quick!" 

Joe nodded, and the two boy ran off, splashing through the mud. 

Meanwhile, Fenton Hardy was becoming very discouraged about the lack of progress in finding his sons. He knew the police were doing all that they could, but they had other cases to solve as well. Fenton had decided that he would find them himself, if he had to spend the rest of his life doing it. 

He had called his client, and explained the situation, that he had to hold off on the murder investigation, that his sons had been kidnapped. The man was understanding, and said that the police were working on the murder as well, and that he understood. Fenton told him, of course, that he would charge no fee for the days he was not working on the case, and would even deduct from the end fee, depending on how long he had to put it off. 

And now, he had a new case; to find his sons. 

He had very little to go on, only that they were probably in a quiet area. They did not know if they were even still in Bayport. Still, Fenton intended to give it his best shot. Tomorrow, he intended to start questioning people, and go from there; he knew Collig was doing his best, but he also had a disturbing suspicion. He thought that there just might be a spy within the Bayport police. It had happened before, after all, and the investigation was going slower than it should, in his opinion. 

He did tell Collig that he was going to be working on the case, and got his "Good luck, Hardy", but he also told the chief his suspicions about the spy in the works. Collig expressed fury over the possibility, and assured Fenton that he was going to investigate that thoroughly. It would explain why they were getting exactly nowhere in their investigation. It would also explain how the kidnappers knew they were being traced. 

"Tomorrow," Fenton murmured to himself as he got ready for bed, not knowing that his sons had escaped their prison, and were at that moment searching for a way to contact him. 

"Where are we?" Joe Hardy asked. He and Frank had run for what seemed like forever, before slipping into the woods to rest a little bit. Both were shaking with exhaustion, and soaking wet. The storm was in full force by then, and wild lightning ripped across the sky every so often, lighting the whole area. 

"I dunno!" Frank said. "But we-we gotta find a phone and call Mom and Dad!" 

"You think there's one this far?" 

Frank shook his head. "I dunno! We just gotta go until we find one! I'm pretty sure this is the way we came!" 

Joe bit his lip, sinking onto the saturated ground. Might as well, he thought, I'm already all wet and muddy. He leaned against the soggy bark of a nearby tree. "Can't we sleep some?" he asked. Although the boys did not know it, it was well past midnight. 

Frank frowned. The idea was very tempting, but he was afraid to stop. The bad guys might not check on them until morning, but they might check sooner. And he didn't want to get caught again! "No, we better not," he finally said. "We don't wanna get caught. Come on, let's go." 

Joe sighed tiredly, but made himself get up off the ground. 

"At least it's not cold out," Frank said encouragingly. The rain was a little cold, but the air was still summer-warm. 

"Yeah, I hate cold. I like rain though," said Joe. "And the rain'll help us keep from getting seen, right?" 

"Yep! And it'll wash out our footprints. Like the Scoutmaster said, that's why we can't find older animal tracks after a rain." 

The boys moved at a fast pace for an hour or so, and finally began to see signs of civilization. They had seen houses here and there, but were unwilling to stop at any of them; they were too close to the one they had been held captive in, and they were a little paranoid that anyone living nearby might be in league with the kidnappers. 

It was nearly dawn when the boys reached the end of the woods, and were very surprised to find that they were on the beach! A rocky strand of beach faded away from the forest, and into the ocean. The brothers stopped and stared for a minute, and then Frank growled, "Oh, no! We musta gone the wrong way!" 

Joe bit his lip. "You don't think there's anything here that might have a pay phone? You know, like a...like a gift shop, or something?" 

"I dunno," Frank said dubiously, shoving his hair off his face. It was dripping into his eyes. "This doesn't look like a very good beach. I guess we could try, though." 

To the boys' great surprise, they did find a shop on the beach, and not only that, there was a paved parking lot and a paved road leading to it! The rain, finally diminishing, pattered down on the cracked sidewalk outside the shop. After a moment, the boys realized that it was a boat rental/sale place, and that there was a boathouse on the other side of it. And, most importantly, there was a pay phone outside the shop! 

"Yeah!" Joe exclaimed, laughing. He hugged Frank, who hugged him back, and they ran to the phone. 

Frank picked up the receiver, shivering a little bit. The cold front that had brought the violent storms had passed, and now it was considerably cooler than it had been. Frank and Joe, being soaked to the bone, were feeling the chill. The older boy stopped, and a look of dismay came over his face. "I don't have any quarters!" 

Joe's eyes widened for a minute, but then he bit his lip. "Should we call 911?" 

"I dunno, is this an emergency? Are we supposed to?" 

Joe shook his head. "Well, can't we – hold on a second! Dad told us about a thing once if we ever had to call him, but didn't have any money! That collection thing!" 

Frank's eyes widened in recognition. "Oh yeah, good job! We can call collect!" Breathing a sigh of relief, Frank dialed "0" on the phone. An operator answered, asking how she could help him. 

"U-um," said Frank. "I-I need to make a collect call, but I dunno how to do it." 

"That's okay," said the friendly voice. "Go ahead and tell me the number you need to call, and when I ask for you name, say it loudly and clearly. Then I'll go ahead and make the call." 

"Thanks," said Frank gratefully. He told the woman his phone number, and she told him to wait a moment. "Okay," she said. "Say your name." 

"Frank." 

There was a moment of silence, during which Frank panicked a little, thinking they had been cut off, but then there was his father's voice, sounding both unbelieving and concerned. "Frank? Is that you 

"Dad!" Frank cried, biting his lip. The urge to cry was great. "Yeah, it's me, Joe's with me!" 

"Frank, where _are_ you?" 

"I-I don't know, we're at the beach, me and Joe, we got out through the window!" 

"You escaped?" 

"Yeah!" 

There was a laugh, a delighted, amazed laugh. "Fantastic! Frank, I am proud of you, of both of you. You'll have to tell me the whole story when you get home. Okay, describe to me exactly where you are, and what the area around the place they were holding you was like. Can you do that for me, son?" 

Frank nodded. "Okay, we're on the beach, the woods sorta came out onto it. It's all rocky and stuff, though, I don't think people use it, except to ride boats. There's a place to rent and buy boats here, and there's a boathouse." 

As Frank continued to describe everything he could think of, Joe looked towards the parking lot. He frowned, looking down the road that led to it, seeing what he thought might be a car in the gray light of pre-dawn. After a moment, he was sure. "F-Frank?" he said, tugging on his brother's sleeve. "Frank, isn't that –" 

At that moment, Frank looked, breaking off what he was going to say. His eyes widened as two car doors opened and slammed, and two figures sprinted towards them. "Joe it's them, run!" Frank dropped the phone and sprinted for the woods, Joe on his heels. 

The two figures pursued. 


	5. Chastisement and Relocation

Chapter 5: Chastisement and Relocation

"Frank? Frank!" Fenton's frantic calls went unheard as the boys ran, leaving the phone dangling from the unit. How did they find us so fast? Frank thought despairingly as he and Joe sprinted for the tree line. 

Unfortunately, the young escapees did not get far; they were quick, but not so quick as the average adult. It was obvious very soon that they could not possibly outrun the kidnappers, although the idea of giving up did not appeal to either boy. Frank spun around to fight, and Joe scanned the ground, looking for something, anything he could use for a weapon. As the footsteps neared, Joe spied a good sized stone on the rocky beach. He seized it, hurling it at one of the figures running at them. He was rewarded by a thud and an outcry of pain from the one he had hit. 

It turned out to be Jake, who staggered from the blow, his hands going up to his head. Greasy-Hair paused, eyes wide in surprise, moving as if to help his hurt partner. 

Seeing this opportunity, Frank yelled, "Run, Joe!" and again the boys fled through the slackening rain. 

"Get after them!" Jake growled, shaking off the injury. Furious, he took off after the fleeing boys. 

Frank yelled when a hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around. Joe, in the lead, skidded in the mud and ran back, ready to help his brother fight off his long-haired attacker. 

But something happened then that brought everything to a halt. A deafening report echoed across the water, leaving everyone's ears ringing. The Hardy boys jumped, badly startled, and even Greasy-Hair was taken by surprise. All three turned to look. 

Jake, apparently, was done fooling around. He held a pistol in his hand, pointed out towards the turbulent water, and his facial expression was wrathful. A little blood dripped from the minor wound Joe's stone had dealt him. He aimed the barrel of the gun unwaveringly at Frank and Joe. 

Frank gasped, and took a step backwards, and Joe's eyes got very big. They had both seen guns, of course, as their father carried one and taught his sons about them. However, needless to say, neither boy had ever faced the business end of one. 

"Okay." Jake's voice was frighteningly grim. "I have had enough. Either of you moves before I say so, I'll shoot out your goddamn kneecaps. Move again, I'll blow your brains out of your head. Understood?" 

The Hardys nodded quickly, holding onto each other with panicky tightness. 

"Good. Then get going, follow him." He nodded to Greasy-Hair, who took the hint and headed quickly back towards the idling car. The boys shakily followed, glancing behind them as they walked. Neither could quite believe that someone had pointed a gun at them. 

Jake took the receiver of the pay phone and slammed it into the cradle on the way to the car, then told Greasy-Hair to get in the front seat. "You two," he growled, nodding towards the back door. "In. Now! Move it!" 

Not wanting to make the man any angrier, Frank fumbled the door open, and the boys crept inside. On Jake's order, they slid to the opposite side of the seat, Jake sliding in after them. The gun remained trained on them, and Frank found he could not stop staring at it. Joe seemed to prefer burying his face in Frank's T-shirt. 

"Get us out of here," Jake said to the woman, who sat behind the wheel. She put the car into gear, and they sped away from the shore. 

Fenton Hardy cursed, not something that he often did, and slammed the phone down on the desk. "Blast them," he hissed, and hung up the phone. He looked at the screen on the tracer, and his expression lightened considerably. The trace had gone through! He dialed the number to the police station, telling them about the call and giving them the location. The officer on duty told him they'd send a couple of squad cars out there immediately. 

Then he woke Laura and briefly explained what was going on. She kept her cool and asked what he wanted her to do. 

"I'm going after them," he told her. "I need you to monitor the phone in my study. Any word from them or the police, forward it to me cell phone. 

"Got it," said Laura. "Be careful, Fenton, okay?" She gave him a quick kiss, slipped on a robe, and sat down behind the desk in Fenton's study. 

Fenton grabbed his jacket and holster from their bedroom, then slipped back into his study for his firearm. He unlocked the door, checked the weapon over, and grabbed an extra clip of ammunition. 

"Good luck, and be careful," Laura repeated. 

"Thanks," Fenton said. "I will." He hurried from the house, praying the whole way that it was not too late to find them. 

Frank and Joe were taken back to the house and taken in at gunpoint. Jake shoved them down onto the couch in the living room, and stood glaring in front of them. He looked to Frank, who had been the one on the phone. "You called the cops, didn't you?" he said. 

Frank shook his head. "N-no." 

Jake narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, pressing the barrel of the gun up against Frank's head, right between his eyes. Frank's eyes widened, and his pale face went white. "This isn't a wise time to cross me, boy. Tell me the truth!" 

"Th-that i-is the t-tru-th," Frank stammered, trying not to move too much. 

Joe spoke up. "W-we _didn't_ call the cops, we called out m-mom and dad." 

Jake drew back and gave Joe a baleful glare. "Oh you did, did you?" He smiled nastily. "Maybe I'll just have to drop him a line too, then. You think he's stop hunting for you if he listened to one of you die because of his interference?" He put a hand briefly to the gash on his head. "And you can just guess which one of you I would choose." 

He turned and picked up the phone receiver, while Greasy-Hair and the woman kept a watch on the boys. They need not have bothered; Frank and Joe was far too afraid to try anything resembling an escape. At Jake's threat, Joe began to cry quietly, and Frank put his arms protectively around him. 

Jake spoke quietly into the phone for a few moments, then hung up. He turned to Greasy-Hair. "Go get the van ready to go, we've got to ditch the car. Get everything out and off of the car that we might need, or don't want found. Including the plates. We gotta move these kids soon. Oh and get my cord out of the shed and bring it in, will you?" 

Cord? Frank thought. 

"Cops?" the woman asked, as Greasy-Hair nodded and jogged outside. 

"Yeah, all over that rental shop," Jake said. "So we can't stay here overlong." He gave Joe an evil glare. "I got the okay for a little demonstration, though." 

Joe shrank back into the cushions of the couch, and Frank's hold on him tightened. "You can't kill him, I won't let you!" Frank cried, his voice thin with fear. 

Jake sneered. "I'm not killing him – yet. But I _am_ going to work him over. Make sure he doesn't get it into his head to throw rocks again." The brothers looked at each other, not sure what working someone over meant. Jake looked at the woman. "Hold the older one." 

The woman grabbed Frank's hair from behind the couch, and yanked on it. "No!" Frank protested, struggling against her grip, but the woman was strong, and when she grabbed Frank's arms, her hands were like bands of iron. She forced his arms up and over the back of the couch, pinning them there. 

Greasy-Hair came back just then, holding a strange thing that looked a little like a thick homemade riding crop, or a flexible billy club made from braided segments of a heavy-duty, outside extension cord. The thick, orange cords were held together at the bottom with wrapped duct tape, making a handle of sorts. Frank began to suspect just what working someone over might mean, and he gave Joe a worried look. 

Jake looked up. "Just in time." He grabbed Joe by the arm and dragged him off the couch. He pinned the boy up against an ornate, square pillar that stood between the living room and the kitchen. "Hold him from behind," Jake said, and Greasy-Hair did just that, grasping the boy's wrists and pulling them back against the pillar. Pinned, Joe could move little but his legs. 

A phone call was made, and Jake scowled once he dialed the number. "Get me Fenton Hardy," he demanded. A pause. "Then I suggest you get me in contact with him. _Now._" 

Joe and Frank exchanged glances. If their father wasn't home, maybe he was out looking for them! 

However, that idea wasn't such a hopeful one right then. The boys didn't think that he would get there in time to prevent Joe getting hurt. 

Jake suddenly smiled, an expression Frank was liking less and less. "Listen up, Hardy. " Even from the couch, Frank could hear his father's voice, sounding angry. He couldn't hear what he was saying, but he knew his father was not happy! 

Jake said nothing else, simply holstered his gun, picked up the makeshift, flexible truncheon instead, and approached Joe with it. Joe looked nothing less than terrified. Frank was tensed, his eyes wide, not believing what he was seeing as Jake brought his arm back and struck Joe hard across the face with the weapon. 

Joe screeched, shocked, and then started to cry. But Jake did not stop with hitting him only the once. He made his displeasure with the younger Hardy brother evident in the savage beating, hitting him over and over again. Joe thrashed around, but Greasy-Hair held him tightly, and Joe couldn't avoid any of the blows. He was soon sobbing in pain and terror, and eventually stopped fighting. 

Frank was livid. He also fought against his captor, screaming at Jake at the top of his lungs. "Leave him alone! Stop hitting him, stop it!" Frank gave a violent wrench, and very nearly yanks his arms from the woman's grasp. She cursed, and grabbed his shirt, yanking him back onto the couch, and grabbing his wrists. Frank did not even notice the pang from his injured arm. 

By all appearances, Jake completely ignored anything that Frank said, only continued with his "chastisement". Once he had beaten him fairly badly, he told Greasy-Hair to let go of Joe's arms, which he did. The boy fell to his knees, and Jake struck him hard across the back, sending him sprawling. The boy started coughing, the breath knocked from him. And now that Joe's back was to Jake, the beating continued. 

The weapon was not hard enough to break bones or skin, or even to seriously injure a victim, but it was painful, and would leave welts and bruises. 

Frank himself was in tears, very afraid that the man was going to hurt his brother badly. "L-leave him alone!" he yelled, his muscles tensed, and his fists clenched. "Stop it – you -" Frank finished the statement with a swear word he had only said once before in his life. Now while Joe would say a mild cuss word here and there, when there were no grown-ups around, Frank had only cussed once or twice in his life. For him, this was a serious word to say. 

Jake, however, did not seem all too impressed. He actually laughed, his mood seeming to have been lightened considerably from the violence he had dealt the younger Hardy boy. Joe was curled up on the carpet sobbing, his hands over his head. 

Jake tossed the cord-club onto the carpet and went over to Frank, slapping him open-handed across the face. It was not enough to hurt, or even sting much, and was only meant as an insult. "Little children shouldn't say such words, boy," he said with a chuckle. "Okay," he said to Greasy-Hair. "Get the kid in the van." He stalked over and picked up the phone, smirking. Joe's cries had quieted to whimpers, and everyone could now hear that Fenton was yelling, which was something the boys did not often hear. Jake winced as he held the phone to his ear. "Keep on shouting, Hardy," he said loudly. "And you'll hear your other son screamin' in just a couple of seconds." The line went quiet. "Just consider that a warning: back off!" He slammed the phone down and turned his gaze to Greasy-Hair, who was carrying Joe out the door. 

"Okay, boy," Jake said to Frank. His gun was out again, and pointed at him. "Get outside and into the van, got it?" 

Frank didn't answer, only looked worriedly at the door after Greasy-Hair and his brother, but when the woman let go his arms, he did not run. He got shakily off the couch and walked to the door. A panel van was parked outside, its side door open, and Frank felt a nudge from behind in that direction. Greasy-Hair was already behind the wheel, and he looked around for Joe. The boy was huddled in the corner, sobbing quietly. Frank climbed in, and immediately went to him, kneeling down and carefully gathering the younger boy into his arms. Joe whimpered, and buried his face in Frank's clothing, and Frank could feel Joe shaking as he held him. 

The van door was closed, and the woman climbed into the passenger seat up front. Jake, however, kept his gun out and sat in the back, keeping an eye on the boys. Frank paid him no mind, all of his attention on his terrified brother. He held Joe, and on impulse started smoothing his still-damp hair back. He had to be hurting, Frank thought angrily, looking at the welts on his brother's body. The skin hadn't been broken anywhere, except a split lip and a bit of a bloody nose, but he could already see Joe was going to be bruised. He turned to glare at Jake for just a moment before going back to calming his brother. 

There was very little talk in the van for at least a half hour. Joe quieted, and simply huddled against Frank. Frank alternately held him and glared at Jake. Greasy-Hair drove, and the woman rode shotgun. Jake said nothing, only kept his gun drawn as a warning. 

Eventually, Joe dropped into a sort of fitful, exhausted sleep, but Frank did not rest. He simply sat with Joe, kept him protectively cradled in his embrace. 

"You didn't have to do that," Frank said finally, keeping his voice low so that he didn't wake Joe. 

Jake raised an eyebrow at the boy, and then chuckled. "You're right. But I wanted to. The little son of a bitch..." Frank noticed that the bad guys cussed a lot. He and Joe were not used at being called cuss words by an adult... "had it coming." 

Frank scowled, his eyes narrowing. "Don't call him that," he said. 

Jake snorted. "I'll call him anything I please, brat. And if you don't like it, tough rocks. Just take a look at your brother, boy. I'll do the same to you if you tick me off, so I'd think twice about protesting too much." 

Frank glared for a moment then looked back down at his brother, and ignored Jake for the rest of the trip. 

The journey was a long one, at least three hours, and Frank found he was fighting sleep. Joe still lay in his uneasy doze, curled up against Frank and shivering. Frank wasn't sure if it was because he was cold or he'd just had the heck beaten out of him, but as he himself was beginning to get chilly, he suspected it was both. The storms had left the area warm and humid, and the air conditioning was on in the van. 

Very carefully, trying not to wake Joe, Frank shifted his brother into a lying-down position, then lay down beside him and closed his eyes. He did not expect to sleep, but the exhaustion caught up with him just then, and he joined his brother in dreamland. 

Jake, of course, had no protest for this, as it kept the boys quiet. 

When the van finally arrived at its destination, Jake half stood, and walked over to the side door and opened it. Joe, sleeping very lightly to begin with, woke with a start and looked around in alarm. He realized that wherever they were, it was their final destination, and felt a surge of near-panic. Not wanting to face whatever was out there alone, he shook Frank, who also woke looking startled. 

Frank looked blearily around, saw his scared brother, and put an arm around him while he tried to figure out where he was. Oh yeah, the van. He frowned, seeing the open door, and hearing Jake talking with someone outside. "I wonder if that's his boss," he whispered to Joe. 

"Hey, keep quiet back there," the woman snarled from up front, turning around to glare at them. 

Frank shut up, but he did notice that she seemed a little nervous, and Greasy-Hair kept glancing outside as well. Maybe they did something wrong, Frank thought, now more certain that it was indeed their boss outside that Jake was talking to. Their boss, or someone bearing a message from their boss. 

"Yeah, they're in here," said Jake, his voice closer than it had been. He peered in and gestured to the two boys, who looked warily back. 

A second face peered in, his eyes widened, and then withdrew quickly. All Frank and Joe could catch was close-cropped white-blond hair and startlingly light gray or blue eyes. They both heard the man's angry, hissed voice, however. "You blasted fool! Why aren't they blindfolded?" 

"I-well, I guess I didn't think of that," came Jake's flustered voice. "I mean, they're just kids." 

There was a snort from the boss. "Just kids. They managed to escape you once, and still you didn't take precautions? I don't care how old they are, they're Fenton Hardy's sons. If they figure out where they are that's all the more risk. I want them blindfolded before you take them out of the van, and don't take them off until you get them into the cellblock. And make sure they're secured. Got it?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Good. When you're done, report to my office." 

Despite himself, Frank was vary curious. He held up a finger to his lips, and made a "hold on a sec" gesture to Joe, then very quietly crept forward a bit towards the open door. He had no plans of trying to make a break for it, as wherever they were he had the idea he would not get out so easily, but knowing that the bad guys didn't want them seeing anything made him want to see just what was there. 

Peering around the door, Frank caught a glimpse of a man's back, the boss he assumed, and of a very large building in front of them. There seemed to be a tall fence surrounding everything, and more buildings around the grounds. What kind of place _was_ this? 

Jake, who also had his back to Frank, turned around just then and his eyes widened in anger. He lunged forward, and Frank recoiled, avoiding the backhand that Jake had been aiming at him. The boy retreated back into the rear of the van, wincing a little as Jake cursed violently. His hand had collided with the side of the van. 

The angry man stormed over to the boys, clamped his hands on Frank's arms, and shook him, hard. "You're lucky I don't have the time to deal with you," he growled, throwing the boy to the floor of the van. Intimidated, Frank said nothing. 

"I'll go get something to blindfold 'em with," said the woman, exiting the van. Jake did not answer, only half-knelt there glaring at the Hardy brothers. When the woman came back, she carried what looked like two cloth bags, and poked her head in through the side door. "Hey, here they are," she said, tossing them towards Jake. 

Jake nodded curtly. "Fine. Stay here." She nodded and Jake turned to the boys, drawing Frank slightly away from his brother, grasping the front of his shirt. "You two are going to keep these hoods on until I take them off you, you got that?" he said. "I catch either of you touching them, I'll simply beat you into unconsciousness. Understood?" 

This threat worked on Joe far better than it did Frank, and he nodded quickly. Still, Frank had no desire to earn the same kind of violence he had watched his brother endure, and so he also nodded his head. 

"Good." Jake pulled the thick, canvas hood over Frank's head, tying it lightly around his neck. Frank realized that these hoods were designed just for this purpose, to put over someone's head. Swallowing hard, disliking not being able to see, he reached out for his brother's hand. Joe took it and held on. 

After Joe was hooded, Jake crept towards the door and pulled on Frank's shirt. "Well, come on!" 

Moving carefully, Frank and Joe crept out of the van, managing not to let go of each other's hands. Each felt someone grip their arm, and were pulled forward. 

The trip inside the building was frightening. Bad enough not being able to see, but they were not with people they trusted to any degree, and that made it worse. The brothers held tightly to each other's hand as they were ushered along at a rapid pace through the building. Frank was still barefoot, having lost his sandals from his pockets in the escape and recapture. He walked on what felt like tile or smooth stone. The building was air-conditioned. At one point, a door was opened and the boys were ushered back out into the oppressive humidity and into another building. This happened two or three times, making the boys very unsure of where they might be. 

Finally, the boys were led into a carpeted building, to one end of the room, and told to stand still. Frank frowned, trying to identify the dinging noise that he heard, but a moment later he was fighting to keep his balance as the floor seemed to drop slightly from his feet. Joe actually stumbled and fell, nearly bringing Frank down as well. An elevator, Frank thought, helping his brother to his feet. He could tell the younger boy was crying, probably in pain. Falling couldn't have felt very good to him just then. 

The elevator descended at least three floors before stopping. Once there, the boys were pulled from the elevator along a floor that was concrete. A door was opened, then closed and locked, and after being drawn along a few feet, Frank felt someone untying the hood from his head. When it was pulled off, he looked around, squinting as his eyes adjusted to bright light. 

It was, indeed, a cell block, and Frank found himself wondering again just what kind of place this was. It wasn't like a real jail; his scout group had taken a tour of one once. These were more like dungeon cells, with chains hanging from the ceiling, dark stone walls, and dark steel bars; each had a cot, a toilet and a tiny sink. There about a dozen cells on each side of the hall, and a larger room at the end of the hall that looked like it might be a small kitchen. The place looked clean, but very dreary. 

Jake took Joe's hood off, and took a key from his pocket to unlock one of the cells. The door slid into the wall, and he gestured inside with a look of mock courtesy on his face. "After you gents," he said, sarcasm nearly dripping from his voice. A shove from behind courtesy of Greasy-Hair accompanied this invitation, and Frank reluctantly stepped inside. Joe stayed glued to his side. "Turn out your pockets," he demanded of the boys. Frank frowned, but did so, revealing nothing except the buckle from his sandals, which fell on the floor. Jake picked it up and frowned, seeing the paint from the basement window that clung to the buckle. "So that's how you did it," he muttered, shaking his head. "You're a gutsy brat, I'll say that." He turned to Joe. "Well?" 

"I-I can't," Joe stammered. "They're attached, I-I can't turn them inside-out." 

"Oh for -" Annoyed, Jake pulled the boy forward and went through his pockets. He found some string, but that was about it. He took this, then stood up. 

They expected Jake to lock the door and leave them but he didn't, not quite yet. He turned to Greasy-Hair, who held out what looked like handcuffs, except that the cuffs looked awfully big. Ankle cuffs, Frank thought, except he noticed that there was only one cuff on each, attached to a very long chain. 

"Sit," Jake commanded, gesturing to the lumpy cot bolted against the wall. The boys did, if somewhat reluctantly, and Jake closed the ankle cuff on Frank's left ankle. The second one was attached to Joe's foot, and the ends of the chains were padlocked to an iron ring in the center of the floor. Jake nodded in satisfaction, then checked the cuffs on the boys' ankles. He made sure they were tight enough that they could not be slipped out of, and stood back and smirked. "Let's see you get out of _this_ room," he said to them, before slipping out of the cell. 

Frank glared at him as the barred door was closed and locked, and then the three adults left. He closed his eyes and let out a big breath, slumping back against the cold stone wall. He had not realized how tense or scared he had been since they'd been recaptured. And now that he and Joe were alone, he could relax a little. Joe was glaring at the cuff on his leg. After experimenting with it a bit and finding that there was no possible way he could budge it, he gave up. "I-I wanna go home, Frank," he said in a little voice. Frank put an arm around him. "Wh-what if they kill us?" He sounded very scared. 

Frank knew how he felt! He himself was terrified. "I-I don't think they will. They...they wanna keep Dad away from them, right?" Joe nodded and Frank continued, trying to convince himself as much as Joe. "Well, if they, you know...if they kill us, Dad won't ever stop until he finds them. So...so I don't think they'll kill us." 

Joe seemed reassured, but Frank wasn't entirely convinced his words were true. They made sense, but criminals didn't always do what made sense. Frank and Joe had seen what their captors looked like, and even knew the first name of one of them. They had gotten a glimpse of the boss, which Frank knew was a very dangerous thing. Once the bad guys had finished whatever it was that they didn't want Dad to find out about, they might just decide to kill the boys and leave them somewhere they wouldn't be found for months. 

Frank found he was starting to shake, and felt the unwelcome threads of panic beginning to wind into his mind. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and made himself stop thinking about it. Finally he sighed, and looked at Joe. "I'm gonna get a drink of water, okay?" 

Joe nodded, and let go of Frank, lying down tiredly on the cot. Frank stood and went to the sink, realizing that there was a clean washcloth and a tin cup on the back of the sink. He rinsed the cup out and used it to get a nice, long drink of water. "You want some?" he asked Joe. Frank had not realized how thirsty he was until now and figured his brother probably was, too. 

"Okay," came Joe's voice from the cot. He sat up and took the cup his brother brought him, drinking it slowly. 

Frank smiled at him and brushed Joe's nearly-dry hair from his forehead. Then he went back to the sink and turned on the hot water tap. He was very pleased to find that they did have hot water, and adjusted the temperature to his liking. He soaked the washcloth and began cleaning himself up a little bit. Both he and Joe were filthy by that point, especially after their escape attempt, as the area had been quite muddy during the rainstorm. Once he was fairly clean, he rinsed all the mud and dirt out of the cloth. He wished he could clean his clothing. 

He glanced back over at Joe, who was finishing his cup of water. He soaked the cloth again, then went over to the cot. "Hey, lemme clean your face a little bit, okay?" he said to Joe. There was dried blood on him from his split lip and bloodied nose. 

Joe nodded. "Okay," he said, wiping his eyes. Normally, Joe would have protested such a thing, but now it seemed he was quite happy for any kind of comfort or care. 

Frank took the wet cloth and very carefully began to wipe the blood and dirt off his brother's skin. Joe winced a few times, but did not fuss, only let Frank continue. The elder brother grimaced as he washed Joe's face. It's bruised up real good, he thought angrily, wishing that he could do the same to Jake as Jake had done to Joe. See how he liked it! Joe's eye was black and blue, and swollen up about halfway. His lips were swollen too, and there were a couple of lines on his face where it had welted up. Frank remembered the terror in his brother's cries, the sound of the hateful thing hitting his skin. Swallowing hard, Frank finished his cleaning and drew Joe into his embrace. He felt guilty. Guilty that he could not stop the man from hurting his brother. They were only a year and a few months apart, but Frank always had this protective streak in him. He figured that most big brothers, if they were any kind of decent, would have the same urge. 

Joe seemed surprised by the impulsive hug, but did not complain. He curled up and sighed. "I-I'm scared, Frank." 

"I know," Frank said. "Me too." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

The boys were quiet for a while after that. Joe simply let himself be comforted by Frank's presence, and did not think of much besides how much he wanted to beat Jake and the others up. There were times he wished he were an adult, or at least a teenager! With a whole lot of muscles. Big ones. 

Frank was the more pensive one, trying to puzzle everything out. He was the one who read voraciously, who liked to solve puzzle and enigmas. He knew very little about his father's case, except that he was probably investigating a murder, and that someone had threatened his family prior to the boys getting kidnapped. It stood to reason that Jake's boss was the one who ordered the murder. That's enough reason for them not to want to be caught, Frank thought. But it's a lot more than just a murder. Frank had read enough mystery and crime books to know how this kind of thing worked. There had to be something big going on here; the murder was only a small part of it. Probably someone that found out about...whatever it was that the bosses were doing. Drugs? He wondered. It seemed likely, he supposed. Maybe illegal arms, or smuggling, that's what it always ended up being in the books. The books were fiction of course, but then most fiction had a strong base in reality. 

Frank sighed quietly. Whatever it was, it was something major, and that meant that if their dad were to crack this case, a lot of people would be going to jail. _Would_ he crack the case? Frank wondered. It wasn't that he didn't think his father _could_ do it, but with the threat of Frank or Joe being killed, would his father continue? He wouldn't abandon us, Frank thought. He'd just be very careful. 

Still, the young Hardy wasn't all that confident. In all the books he ever read, only the big crime syndicates ever had complexes like this, with guards, and prison blocks. Crime syndicates, or governmental types. This idea wasn't a cheerful one, either. Either way, Frank thought, we're in big trouble. 


	6. Closing In

Chapter 6: Closing In

Jake Nelson walked into the office just after the big boss, a chilling man with platinum blond hair and eyes the same color as bleached stone. He did not normally call someone into his office unless it was to chew them out, or worse. Jake said nothing, only stood and waited to be addressed, which he was, shortly. 

The boss sighed, and sat down behind the elegant oak desk. "Sit down, Jake," he said, indicating one of two chairs that sat in front of his desk. Jake did so. "And don't look so terrified. If you were in that much trouble, I'd have dealt with you by now." 

Jake managed a bit of a sick smile, and sat as he had been bidden. 

"Still, I'm not real happy with your performance thus far. Those kids escaping could have messed things up real good for us." 

"Well jeez, they're just kids," Jake said. "Who coulda thought they'd find a way out of that stupid basement? And without being heard by one of us? We even made sure there was someone there all the time." 

"Didn't do a whole lot of good." 

Jake sighed. "No, I guess not. It was storming pretty bad by that point. Guess that's why we didn't hear." He looked at the boss, whose expression was not readable. 

"You're just lucky that our man in the police station was able to stall things enough to help you get out of there. He's doing everything he can to gum up the works. Everything he can do without being caught, that is." 

"Well, that's good, I guess," said Jake, feeling resentful that someone else had to cover his rear because of his mistake. "Anyways. What're we gonna do with the little bastards?" 

"That depends," said the boss. "If we manage to get out of here free and clear, we'll do as I had you tell Hardy. We'll tie them up someplace and leave directions to their location, and we'll be shut of them. If not, we will take them with us as leverage. Once we get out of the jurisdiction of the US, we'll see. Likely we'll just kill them and be done with it, no chance of them escaping, no chance of them causing us problems. They may be children, but they're Hardys, and they're clever. Still, we might find a certain use for them. There's countries that still deal in the sale of human beings, might look into that. Either way, we'll be rid of them." 

Jake frowned. "How much you think they know about the operation? I mean I didn't think they'd learned much, but -" 

"But you screwed up from the beginning," the boss cut in candidly. "Well, we know for sure that they know what you three look like." The boss shrugged, and stood. "So ask them. Get Jesse on it, she's a woman, they might warm up to her." 

Jake also stood, and gave the boss a look. "Don't let her hear you say that," he said with a snort. "She's not exactly the motherly sort. 

Unperturbed by this statement, the blond man said, "Do it yourself then, I don't care. Just find out what they know, and report to me. They should have a guard on them anyway. In the meantime, you and whoever's not guarding the cell block working on getting us ready to move out." 

Jake nodded. "Yes sir," he said heading out. Then he paused, and looked back. "How long will we need to get everything finalized, you know, get our business finished, money collected, all that?" 

The boss thought a moment. "A week, I'd say. That's IF you get yourselves moving." 

Jake took the hint and left the office. 

On the shoreline, there was a mild bit of chaos at the boat rental shop, where Fenton was yelling desperately into his cell phone. A few people had come to see, and looked at him a bit bewildered. A young rookie cop, name of Con Riley, stepped tentatively up to him and spoke. "Mr. Hardy?" he asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Are you oka-" 

Fenton jerked his arm away from the young officer, clamping a hand over his free ear. But a moment later he took the phone from his ear, jamming his thumb on the END button hard enough to nearly crack the plastic. "Those miserable pieces of..." he growled in a low tone. He might have finished with a four-letter word or two, but he could not think of one vile enough to describe the man that he had heard beating his child. 

Con Riley blinked, looking a little abashed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardy, I didn't mean to intrude or anything." 

Fenton closed his eyes and tried very hard to get a reign on his temper. It did not easily, but when it did, anyone around him was best off staying back a few paces. Luckily, he did not blow his top. Calm, he told himself, although everything in him that made him a parent wanted to lash out at anyone, to exact some kind of payment for his son getting hurt. But that would get him nowhere, indeed it might even get him thrown off the case, and that was not something that would sit well with him. 

"I'm all right," he said tersely. He looked up to see that behind the rookie stood a few other officers, the detective that had come to help set up the tracer on his phone, and Chief Collig. Ezra Collig did not usually personally oversee such investigations, but Fenton was an old friend. Perhaps they did not always see eye to eye, but Collig wouldn't let him deal with this by himself. "That was the kidnappers," he said, but did not elaborate. 

Chief Collig nodded. "Are they okay?" 

"They're alive," said Fenton. He had hardly been at the shore a minute before he had gotten the call. And now, without a word, he continued his investigation. He was lifting fingerprints, making casts of footprints (where the rain had not washed them away and the ground was solid enough) and taking pictures of anything of significance. 

Collig looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he simply clapped Fenton on the back and went back to his own duties. He knew it was highly unusual for Fenton to lose his temper, but then he was a parent whose children were in danger. He supposed that even someone as normally self-composed as Fenton would blow his top. He also knew that Fenton had had little sleep, little food, and a lot of caffeine. He would have to talk to him about his ability to function in this state of being. 

But later. 

Frank's sandals, one nearby, the other closer to the actual shore, were found, and had Fenton not just heard his sons over the phone, that might have worried him. One sandal was missing a buckle, so that might explain why he wasn't wearing them. A rock with a bit of blood on it was found as well, and Fenton hoped that the tests would not indicate that the blood was one of his sons'. 

Several minutes later, Fenton found the ghost of a tire track on the asphalt, and knelt to discover it. "Ezra!" he called. "Found something!" Now this was something that could be of use in finding his boys! In fact, with that and the partial location they had managed to get from the last trace, they should be able to locate the building! 

The place was deserted by the time Fenton and the police got there. Fenton felt like he might cry himself, from frustration, as he got out of his car and looked dismally around. "Blast it," he muttered, sighing and running a hand through his hair. 

They were not long gone, by the looks of things. The tire tracks were fresh in the cobbles, although they led to a paved road far too soon for them to be of much use beyond a possible ID of the vehicle. The car that had been abandoned was still warm, if slightly, but had been stripped of just about anything that could be used for identification of the owners. They did find Frank and Joe's backpacks in there, and they were taken in by the cops in case there was any clue to the identity of the boys' kidnappers. The couch inside was a little damp and muddy, as was the floor. A search of the basement found nothing except the ladder Frank had stuck through the window, and flakes of paint and caulking from the window frame. 

The place was examined with the same thoroughness as the previous scene, but Fenton was beginning to despair that he would ever see his boys again. He was sure they were still alive, as the kidnappers would have very little reason to kill them yet, but Fenton still worried, especially after he'd heard them hurting Joe. 

He walked outside, his eyes closed, and his hands on his head. Gods, he needed to get it together! He was of no use like this! But three nights of sleeplessness, worry, and hardly anything to eat had taken its toll on him. His normally keen instincts, sharp eye, and clear mind were badly dulled. He leaned against his car, looking miserable. 

Chief Collig approached him. "We'll find them, Fenton," he said in a low tone. 

"I don't know, Ezra," said Fenton, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. Panicking wasn't going to help anything. "Whoever these guys are, they're good." 

"They're still human, and humans make mistakes." 

"I suppose." Fenton Hardy did not sound all that convinced. 

Collig sighed. "Look, you've hardly had any sleep. Maybe you should go home and get some rest, let us handle it for a little while." 

Fenton frowned; it sounded like a very wise and a very tempting idea, but he couldn't stand the thought of doing nothing while his sons were out there, possibly hurt. He told Collig this, and at his questioning look, he explained what he had heard over the phone. "I-I don't know how badly they hurt him," Fenton said. "But -" He broke off, his hands shaking, and looked to the sky. If he ever got his hands on those miserable cowards... 

Even Collig looked outraged at this, and expressed his feelings with a few colorful words. He looked at a loss as to what to say to Fenton, but after a moment, grasped his shoulder until the detective looked at him. "Come on, Fenton," he said. "Let's go back to your place and talk this thing out, your case, everything we've learned since then, everything. You're exhausted, and you're not gonna be able to do much good here. Hate to sound like a jerk, but I'm afraid it's true. But I've found that sometimes a good brainstorm can be highly useful for catching things that you wouldn't have thought of before." 

Fenton looked like he wanted to argue, but finally gave in, suddenly feeling tired down to his bones. "Okay, Collig," he said in a defeated sort of tone. "Okay, you win; I'll meet you at my place, then." 

Collig nodded. "I will meet you there. Detective Berkley!" 

The man that had set up Fenton's phone looked up from where he was examining some of the tire tracks in the mud. "Yeah, Chief?" 

"You're in charge! Report to me immediately if you and your team find anything." 

The man nodded, smiling a bit. "Gotya, chief." 

"Okay, Hardy, let's go figure this crap out." 

Fenton nodded, and went around to the driver's side of his car, and paused. "Hey, Chief!" he called. Collig looked back. "Thanks." Collig smiled, gave a sort of half wave, and continued to his own vehicle. 

An hour and fifteen minutes later, both men were seated at the dinner table in the Hardy's kitchen. Laura was there with them, listening to what happened. She went pale when Fenton told her of the phone call. "My God," she said. "I wish I'd kept him on the line longer, you could have gotten a trace!" 

Fenton shook his head. "It's all right, Laura," he said. "We ended up finding the place, anyway. The trace would have done little good at this point." That wasn't entirely true. There was the chance that having the exact location from the beginning would have gotten there in time to catch the kidnappers. The last conversation that Fenton had been allowed with his boys had been just long enough to get a partial trace, the general location, but that was as close as they got. Still, he knew that would only upset his wife, and so he said nothing of it. 

"Well," Collig said, "we're hoping that this little pow-wow will give us some new ideas." He turned to Fenton. "Okay, let's go over everything that you know about your current case. We'll start with that." 

Fenton, a cup of coffee in front of him and clad now in dry clothes, took a big breath and began. The case. His client was a man from Bayport, whose brother had been killed by a gunshot wound to the head; Fenton had been hired to find the killer. The gun had proven untraceable, there had been no fingerprints or other evidence at the crime scene, and no marks on the body, save for the bullethole in his head. The autopsy had turned up no trace of chemicals from drugs in his body. "The murder itself was a bit of a dead end," said Fenton. "Like I said, whoever did it was good. But then I got to questioning the victim's friends and family. Most were eager enough to help, as they wanted to nail the man's killer as much or more than I did. It was then I started getting little patches of information." 

The victim had worked in a restaurant as a cook, and so there was little chance that such a professional murder had anything to do with that, but he had questioned his co-workers and boss anyway. Surprisingly, he had found out a few things there. The victim's best friend worked there as dishwasher, and told Fenton that the victim had been helping their manager figure out who was doing drugs among the work crew. The place had very nearly gotten shut down because of some residue found in the unisex employees' bathroom that ended up being from cocaine. The friend said the boss didn't give a crap if some moron wanted to ruin his life with drugs, but when he took it into the workplace, that was unacceptable. Whoever it was had not been found out for certain, but very soon after the health inspection that had found the residue, three employees quit; one cook and two servers. Upon some intense investigation, Fenton discovered that it had been the cook was the one doing drugs on shift, and that he was not only a user, but a dealer. A dealer with some major connections. 

All through this investigation, Fenton had been getting threats, the threats he had told Sam Radley about on the phone while Joe eavesdropped. It was shortly after he had found out about the drug dealer, and that he was only the low man on an as of yet unnamed totem pole, that Frank and Joe had been kidnapped. 

"I'm onto something big," said Fenton. "I feel it in my gut. There's something big going on here, and these guys are pros. The only sloppy ones seem to be the lowest underlings, and even they aren't careless for long." Fenton's voice was grim as he said this. 

Collig nodded. "I know about that," he said. The drug dealer Fenton had investigated had been killed, and Fenton was willing to bet that he had been killed for his carelessness. After all, he had given Fenton and the police the lead that could break the case, eventually. But then Fenton's sons had been kidnapped, and everything was thrown into chaos. 

There was silence at the table for several minutes, and then Laura spoke up. "This drug dealer, the cook..." she said to the men, who turned to her to listen. "You have his body?" 

Chief Collig nodded. "Yeah, it's down at the morgue." 

She frowned. "He was searched thoroughly?" 

Collig frowned. "Yes, everything on him is in Evidence. Why?" 

"Well, I thought perhaps that solving his murder would provide the lead you need to find who he worked for. After all, if Fenton's right, someone that he worked for killed him, or had him killed. If you could identify that man... Either that, or search the man's home or car, see if he left any clues." 

Collig and Fenton looked at each other, and Fenton raised a brow. "You know," he said after a moment. "I've been focused so intently on the original victim's murder, I never really considered trying to solve this one...Laura, you're a genius!" 

The woman smiled tiredly. "I know," she teased a bit. "That's why you married me." 

"Absolutely!" Fenton went over and kissed her. "Chief, you say the body's still at the morgue? Can I have a look at it, and anything else he had on him?" 

The chief stood. "Yeah, I think I can arrange that. Meanwhile, Fenton, I want you to get some sleep." When the man began to protest, Chief Collig held up a hand. "No, Fenton, I insist. These guys are pros, like you said, I don't want you going after them with your brain half addled with fatigue. I'll see what I can find out about the drug dealer, and Detective Berkley will be investigating the boys' kidnapping. You've been at this almost constantly for the last four days. Rest. Tomorrow, come into the station, and I'll tell you what we've got on the drugger, and you can go from there." 

"He's right, Fenton," said Laura. Not teasing anymore, she stood and looked worriedly at Fenton. "You need some good sleep, and some good food. And tomorrow you'll be fresh and alert, and ready to crack this case. Okay?" 

Fenton blew his breath out through clenched teeth, but he knew that they were right. "Okay," he finally said. He turned and shook the chief's hand. "Good luck, okay? And if you find out _anything_ about my boys, call me, whether I'm asleep or not." 

Collig nodded. "I will do that. Until tomorrow then, Fenton. And Mrs. Hardy, thanks for the coffee." 

She smiled as the chief left, then turned on her husband. "And you, mister, you get to bed and take a nap. I've got chamomile if you need an assist. I'll wake you for supper, all right?" 

Fenton was reminded again how much he loved his wife. He walked over and folded her into his embrace, his face against her neck. She hugged him back, closing her eyes. "Fenton...I know you'll find them. I just...I don't want you to work yourself into a collapse. That won't do anyone any good, and I don't have to worry about three family members." 

"I know, Laura." 

Laura Hardy pulled away and smiled a bit at her husband. "Go on." 

Fenton kissed her once before trudging upstairs. Turned out he did not need any help falling asleep. As soon as he had changed into his comfortable pajamas, he found that he could not possibly stay awake any longer. And now that there was a break in the frustrating case, his mind was a bit more at ease. I really was pushing myself, he thought as he drifted off. But tomorrow...tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow it's time to get serious. And with that thought, he surrendered to slumber. 


	7. A Fink in the Ranks

Chapter 7: A Fink in the Ranks

Frank and Joe had lain in the cot for only a few minutes before falling asleep. Neither would have thought it possible, but they did manage slumber. They were, understandably, exhausted. They had not slept during the night, being a bit too busy trying to escape their captors. 

When Greasy-Hair, came down he decided not to wake them just yet. When they were asleep, he didn't have to deal with them, and they were quiet. Still, the keen instincts that would one day make them among the best investigators in the country told the boys that they were not alone. Joe stirred first, opening his eyes and peering through the bars of the cell. His eyes widened a little bit, and he sat up. Frank was roused then, and he also sat, scowling at the man through the bars. 

"About time you woke," said Greasy-Hair, reclining back in the metal folding chair. 

"What do you care?" said Frank, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He wondered how long he and Joe had been asleep. 

Greasy-Hair shrugged. "I don't. Keeps you shut up, at any rate." 

Frank glared, but didn't say anything, only turned to his brother and asked him if he was all right. 

"I-I guess so," said Joe. "I hurt, though." 

"Yeah, I bet you're sore, huh?" Frank brushed his hair off his forehead, then stood up. "You want more water?" 

"Yeah." 

Frank obligingly filled the cup with water and gave it to Joe, then sat back down on the bed. "So are you just gonna sit there and watch us all the time?" he demanded of Greasy-Hair. 

The man shrugged. "Probably. It's your fault, you know. The boss don't like that two little brats outsmarted his people." It was an insult, to be sure, but also a bit of a compliment to the boys' cleverness. This was deliberate, as he intended to try and find out just how much the kids knew. 

Frank looked at him for a long moment, wondering whether he should feel flattered or aggravated. He decided that he felt smug, more than anything else. "I guess," he finally said. "We can't get out of the stupid ankle cuffs though, you know, and there's no windows in here." 

"Yeah, well the boss isn't taking any chances." Greasy-Hair was quiet for a few moments, while Joe drank his water. "So, you figured it all out yet?" 

Frank gave the man a suspicious look as he took the cup from Joe to get himself some water, also. "Figured all what out yet?" 

"All of this, what's going on here. Don't tell me that two bright boys like yourselves haven't even figured out what it is your daddy's investigating." 

"A murder, I thought," said Frank. A little mental alarm bell went off, and he wondered just why this guy was being so friendly all of a sudden. What did he want? Fenton always told his boys if someone's being friendly all of a sudden when they weren't before, they either want something or are trying to get away with something. Frank decided not to say much more about his father's case, or what he and Joe knew about it. That might not be wise. 

Greasy-Hair chuckled. "A murder, right." 

Frank shrugged. "That's all we know, he doesn't tell us anything about his cases until they're over. Sometimes not even then." 

Greasy-Hair nodded. "Makes sense, I suppose. Guess you aren't as clever as the boss gives you credit for." 

Nice, Frank thought. Now he knew for sure that they were being goaded. He glanced at Joe, who was looking indignant, and shook his head very slightly. Joe caught the gesture and said nothing, but he still didn't look entirely pleased with the jibe. Frank simply shrugged, and sat down. "Guess not," he finally said. 

There was nothing for a few moments, before Frank looked his brother over. His face wasn't as swollen as before, but it still was somewhat puffy and sore. He turned back to their guard. "Hey. Couldn't we have some ice or something for my brother's face? Please?" He didn't really feel like being polite, but he figured being rude certainly wasn't going to get him what he wanted. 

Greasy-Hair looked at him for a minute, and then shrugged. "Guess there's no harm in it, if it'll keep him from whining the whole time I'm here." He stood, oblivious to Joe's glare, and headed back into the little kitchen Frank had seen when they had been brought into the cell block. The boys heard a refrigerator door opening, heard the crinkle of a plastic bag, and the clacking of ice cubes. The fridge was closed, and a moment later, Greasy-Hair came back with a quart zipper-bag full of ice. "Here," he said, tossing it through the bars. 

Frank shot out his hands to catch it, fumbling for a moment, but finally securing it in his grasp. "Thanks," he said grudgingly, going back to the lumpy cot. "Hey, why don't you lay back down for a bit, Joe, okay? You can put this on your face, 'specially your eye. It'll make it not hurt as much." 

Normally Joe would have protested this, but today he didn't quite feel up to making a fuss. Besides, he did know that ice made injuries feel better. The boy lay down on the cot, and Frank looked at him a moment before pulling the blanket partially over Joe's face. The blanket was thin and worn, but it would serve as a bit of insulation between Joe's skin and the ice, so the bag wasn't directly on his face. Once the ice bag was settled, Frank smiled a bit. "Better?" 

Joe nodded, then had to catch the bag before it fell. Frank sat on the cot, silent, staring at the floor, slumped back against the wall. He felt like he had screwed up, royally, this whole ordeal. If only they had not been found there at the beach! He supposed they followed the boys' footsteps. Frank thought that they would have been wiped out by the rain, but maybe enough remained to follow. He brooded about what they should have done differently, what he should _not_ have done... The older Hardy boy managed to get himself into a bout of fairly severe self-criticism, and found himself feeling miserable. 

Frank was pulled out of his unhappy reverie by his brother's voice. "I don't want this on anymore," he said, holding up the ice. "It made my face really cold." 

"Okay," Frank said, taking it. He pulled the blanket down from Joe's face and was a little cheered to see the swelling had gone down considerably. He was just bruised. He looked at the ice for a moment, a bit at a loss as to what to do with it, then looked down and put the ice on his sprained wrist. Ice does feel better, he thought. And again, there was silence. 

The day passed very slowly, as before, for the young captives. They had less room to move around in than the basement had afforded, and they could not even talk much about things such as escape, because they now had a twenty-four hour guard. That is really stupid, Frank thought. There's no way we can get out of here. He thought they were overreacting, big time, but he could not help but feel a bit flattered. When he mentioned it to Joe, he even smiled a little, and once Frank explained what the word "flattered" meant, Joe said he felt the same. 

They were fed once, a ham sandwich each. It wasn't as much as they would have liked to eat, but it was better than nothing. They drank water from the sink, and eventually settled down to sleep, curling up together on the cot. 

Early the next morning, Fenton Hardy woke from a much-needed sleep of nine hours or so. The previous evening, he had woken only long enough to eat supper and drink a cup of chamomile tea. Then he had crashed in bed and not stirred once the entire night. 

After a rather urgent trip to the bathroom, he was more than ready to continue his investigations. Ezra and Laura were right, he thought to himself as he dressed quietly, not wanting to wake his wife. I was really out of it. It was amazing how much better a good night's sleep made one feel. Also got me a little more level-headed, he thought with a bit of amusement at his own expense. I came very close to blowing my top yesterday. 

The first trip, after a quick breakfast, was to the police station. Collig had just gone on duty, and Fenton was told to go on back to his office. "You look a lot better, Hardy," said Collig. 

"Thanks," Fenton said. "I feel one hundred percent better. And more than ready to investigate that other death." 

Collig nodded. "Well, like I said, we've got the body in the morgue, and a bag with everything he had on him is in the evidence room. Come on, let's go take a look." 

A few minutes later, Collig was unlocking a room in the back of the station that was filled with filing cabinets, airport locker-type compartments, and larger cupboards. He nodded to the officer on duty there, then turned to Fenton. "There wasn't much on him." He said. "And very little evidence on the scene itself. But...here's what we got." The chief opened one of the locker-style storage bins and drew out a gallon-sized plastic bag, tossing it on the table. "Go ahead," he said. "We lifted any fingerprints off of them long ago." 

Fenton nodded, and opened the bag, carefully dumping what was there on the counter. There was not much. A cigarette lighter and a half-empty pack of Pall Malls, some rolling papers and a little tube that Fenton assumed was from the man's drug use. A key ring with one key on it ("That was for his mail box," said Collig. "Apartment.") There were some coins and a piece of paper with a phone number on it. Fenton looked at it, and turned to the chief. 

At the detective's look of inquiry, Collig shook his head. "It's the number of a pawn shop, completely legit. We checked them out. He'd pawned a ring and a video game unit there not long ago and was asking of they were still there, as his ticket had long expired. 

Fenton nodded, looking faintly disappointed, as he put the things away. "Well, nothing here that could possibly help," he said, frowning a bit. He handed the bag over to the chief, who put it back. "Clothing?" 

He was only wearing a pair of underwear, actually," said Collig with a look of distaste on his face. "Which was nasty enough that it shouldn't be mentioned. But there was nothing on them. I can show them to you if you want." 

"Uh, no, that's all right. The body?" 

Collig nodded. "We'll take my car over there. Heck, maybe you'll catch something we didn't. truth to tell, I wasn't fantastically impressed with how the investigation had gone. And I'd swear you've got the eyes of a hawk, Fenton." 

Fenton smiled a bit, and was grateful for the bit of humor. "Not quite," he said as the two men left the room. "Although that would be useful." 

The morgue was a less than cheery place, and Fenton was uneasy there. Not that he had never been to morgues before, usually in the course of an investigation, but it never sat quite easy with him. He always thought that for the most part, the dead should remain undisturbed, out of respect if nothing else. Although in this case, Fenton couldn't decide just how much such respect this man deserved. 

The caretaker, after viewing their identification, took them back to a spacious, chilly room with several dozen largish drawers, all up and down three of the walls. She went to the computer, looking up the number of the body they wanted to see, and then went to one of the drawers and unlocked it. She nodded politely, and retreated back to the computer to keep an eye. 

The drawer was at floor level, and Fenton and Collig had to kneel to look at the cadaver that lay within. Fenton frowned, but that was the only expression of displeasure he showed as he peered in. At first, he simply looked it over without touching it, but saw nothing except the fatal wound. "One bullet in the head, just like my case." 

Collig nodded. "Yeah. And little to no evidence. Same people, I'd bet my badge on it." 

Fenton then looked a little more thoroughly, moving the arms and legs as much as he could, as the body was stiff from death and cold. He narrowed his eyes as he caught what looked to be a tattoo on the palm of the man's hand. Prying his fingers open slightly, Fenton looked closely, barely making out a word and a year: Concordia 2000. 

"As far as we can figure," said Collig, "that tattoo's a college and a graduation year. He is the right age, and all his co-workers said he was a smart guy." He shrugged. "The thing is, we can find no trace of his name anywhere." 

Fenton sighed, standing. "Nowhere?" he said, closing the drawer with a big of a bang. 

"Well there's a few people around who have the same name, it's not rare or anything, but no record of this individual under that name. He had to have changed it sometime in the past, and not by legal channels, or we'd have found record of it." 

Fenton Hardy was silent for a moment, before turning to the morgue attendant. "Thank you for your help," he said gratefully to her. 

The woman smiled. "You're quite welcome. The best of luck to you, and you, Chief." 

Collig nodded politely to her, and he and Fenton left. "I'm sorry," said Collig. 

Fenton did not answer until they were back in the chief's car, and then he turned to him. "You know," he said. "There was something strange about that tattoo. It wasn't a professional one, that's for sure. It was that cheap blue ink, and almost seemed written -" Fenton cut himself off, his eyes widening a bit. "Hold on, Chief," he said, putting a hand on Collig's as he began to turn the ignition key. 

Collig cocked his head, drawing his hand from the ignition. 

"Chief, I don't think that _was_ a tattoo, I think it was just ink." 

"What, you're saying he wrote it on his hand?" Collig frowned. "I dunno, Hardy. Never knew anyone out of junior high that wrote stuff on his hand. Although it did seem a bit like ballpoint pen, now that I think of it." He turned to Fenton. "Detective Berkley was in charge of that case, if I remmeber right. I never got directly involved, and this was even the first time I'd seen the body." He stared at Fenton for a few moments as he said this, and his eyes narrowed the slightest bit. "Let's head back to the station," he said slowly, starting the vehicle. "I have a few things I want to check up on, and you can seat yourself at my computer and see if you can't find another reference for 'Concordia' besides the college." 

Fenton nodded; he could tell there was something up with the chief, but didn't pursue the matter. He knew that if it was something he needed to know, Collig would tell him. Instead, he spent the ride trying to think of what Concordia could mean. 

Once back at the station, Collig disappeared into the building after unlocking his office for Fenton to use. Fenton looked at the computer for a moment, realizing that the operating system was a bit newer than he was used to, and spent a few moments familiarizing himself with the machine. And then he got to work. 

Chief Collig was busy talking to officers in the station, officers that had worked with Detective Berkley before. And it was not until he began speaking to those that had been a part of the Hardy kids' kidnapping that he began to confirm his suspicions. None of them could tell him anything solid, but he did find out that for some reason, the detective was being very slow in his investigations. He never seemed to get any useful leads; his investigations never seemed to turn up anything they could use. "We've been wondering if he's not losing his touch, chief, quite frankly," one woman told him, shrugging. "Not that any of us is gonna say anything to him. He outranks nearly all of us." 

The most useful bit of information came from the kid that had been helping with the investigation at the shore, and then at the house Frank and Joe had been held captive in. Chief Collig caught Con Riley as he and his partner were heading out for their shift. "Hold on a second, Riley," said the chief. "I got something I want to talk to you about." 

"Y-yes, sir," said the kid, and Collig wondered if he were really that intimidating. 

"Relax, Riley, I just have a few questions to ask about Detective Berkley." There was no mistaking it this time, the young officer's face paled considerably. For the moment, Collig pretended not to notice. "You worked on the investigation the other day concerning Fenton Hardy's sons, correct? With Berkley?" Riley nodded. "Well, I wanted to ask if you noticed anything strange about his investigation. I know you've not worked with him before and probably don't know him well, but you were there with him." 

Riley bit his lip, then quickly released it, and it was obvious he was trying not to seem as nervous as he felt. "W-well, sir, not-not...not really, I mean, if you mean..." The rookie faltered under the chief's stern glare, and fell silent. 

"Well?" Collig said in a quiet tone. This was a tone that no one liked much. Collig had a temper and got angry a lot, but when he just spoke quietly, didn't raise his voice, and held you pinned with that unwavering stare... _Then_ people knew he was angry, and that was a bad time to cross him. 

Riley looked like he could cry. "I-he-he made me promise..." 

Collig narrowed his eyes, but then sighed, and the quiet-fury look faded from his eyes. He put a hand on the rookie's shoulder. "Riley, look at me," he said, his tone gentler than it had been. Riley did. "The lives of two children may be at stake here. If you know anything, you need to tell me." 

Riley bit his lip again, and blew out a big breath. "O-okay...okay," he finally said. 

Collig nodded. "We'll talk in my office, okay?" He looked to Riley's partner, an older man that had worked for several years in the department, and told him to go ahead and do his patrol alone for this. The officer agreed readily enough, after all, before he had a rookie to train, he had done his patrols alone. Once that was done, Collig led a miserable-looking Riley back to his office, where Fenton was just finishing his search. 

"Any luck?" Collig asked. 

If Fenton wondered why Con Riley was being led into the office, he didn't show it, he simply stood to give the chief back his chair. "Some, yeah, seems there's a lot of things that use the name Concordia. Found the college of course, actually several colleges; a lot of links for some kind of strange role-playing game, a publishing house, and a few Irish legends. But the most promising one is the name of a housing development/suburb sort of place about three hours' drive from here. And I had a thought. Perhaps that wasn't a year, but a time? Military time? I've had this idea in my head, now, that maybe this guy wasn't killed because of his carelessness in doing his drugs, but that for some reason or another, he was trying to seek out his suppliers? He could have found something out and just jotted it on his hand." 

Collig looked evenly at Fenton for a few seconds, before nodding. "You know what, Hardy? My gut says that you just might be right." 

"I want to head there as soon as possible, check things out," Fenton said. 

"We'll discuss that in a moment. For now, young Riley here might know a thing or two that will clear up some mysteries." He sat in his chair, while Fenton moved to one of the chairs in front of the desk. 

Riley, looking miserable, spoke up. "Okay...well, sir, it was in the house, the one that they'd had Mr. Hardy's kids in... It didn't really seem like a huge deal then, but the detective kinda got mad about it. I walked in when everyone else was outside, and saw he was wiping the phone down. It only occurred to me later that he would have wiped out any fingerprints that were on it." 

Collig frowned. "Was this before or after the place was dusted?" 

"Before." 

"And what happened when you saw him?" 

Riley took a big breath, then let it out. "Well, I asked him why he'd done that, I mean, I dunno. Maybe it's something that detectives do...I dunno why, but they do a lot of weird stuff that doesn't make sense to me. But Detective Berkley got really mad, got hold of my uniform collar and said that if I told anyone what I'd seen, he'd make sure I lost my job. And that after that, I'd better start watching my back. I mean, I guess I shoulda still told, but, I mean..." The youth trailed off again, intimidated by the look of anger on Collig's face. Fortunately for Riley, the anger was not aimed at him. 

"I won't say it's all right, Riley," said the chief, after taking a moment to calm himself. "But everyone makes mistakes, and you won't be in any trouble for this." 

A look of profound relief came over Riley's face at this. 

"Okay, I will deal with this... Go on home for the day, Riley, your partner's already left. And I expect you back at work tomorrow, got that? And from now on if something like that happens, you go straight to your sergeant, or if you are uneasy with trusting him, then come to me. Is that understood?" 

Riley actually smiled a little, ecstatic that he would not be getting in trouble over the incident. "Yes, sir," he said, and left in a hurry when dismissed. 

Once Riley had left, Collig turned to Fenton, a grim look on his face. "Well," he said. "Now we know why there've been no breaks in this case. Or that murder we just looked at either, for that matter." 

"That miserable coward," said Fenton quietly. Like Collig, he hated crooked cops, but the fact that this one had deliberately helped the people who had kidnapped, and hurt his sons! "Berkley," he said after a moment. "That was the one that helped install the tracer on my phone. 

"I'll deal with it," said Collig. "I'll make sure he's of no further hindrance to this case. And in the meantime, you go ahead and check up on that Concordia lead, see what you can find." 

Fenton took a big breath, and nodded. "All right, I'll have to go in some sort of disguise, I think. These people obviously know who I am. Once I find anything, I'll contact you." 

"Good idea," said Collig. "I don't think that will be in our jurisdiction, but I should be able to get the cooperation of the local cops. If this is as big as I think it is, I'll see if we can't bring the SWAT team into it. This could be a big bust!" 

Despite himself, Fenton smiled. "Sounds like a plan to me." The two men shook hands, then each departed to his task. 


	8. Busted!

Chapter 8: Busted!

Concordia, it turned out, was the name of a brand new community a little ways outside of Woodstock. How fitting, Fenton thought with a wry grin. Drug dealers near Woodstock. Fenton was too young to have gone to Woodstock, but he knew quite a few people who had. Very few remembered much of the concert. Wonder why? he mused with a sort of wry amusement. 

Concordia was a place for the well-to-do, that was evident. He strolled casually about the community, asking a question or two here and there, and keeping his keen eyes out for trouble or suspicious individuals. 

He found neither, as it turned out, but a few of the people he talked to mentioned a strange sort of compound on the outskirts. "Some sort of government facility," one woman guessed, shrugging. "Seems like it, anyway. Guards, and all. Reminds me of Offutt Airforce Base, back home." Fenton knew that the Offutt base was in Nebraska. 

A well-guarded complex? Now that seemed like a distinct possibility. But Fenton could do no more in-depth investigation on his own. It was time to contact Chief Collig. After all, Collig had undercover agents of his own, and many of them had access to equipment far better than Fenton's. And the kidnappers won't recognize them, I hope, Fenton thought as he headed back towards Bayport. He called the chief on his cell phone, and gave him a brief run-down of what he had found out. Tonight, the chief promised, he would sent out a small team to check things out under the cover of darkness. "It might take a few days to get enough information and reasonable doubt about the place to warrant a raid on the place," he said. "But once we do get that information, we should be able to shut the place down, and get your boys out of there." 

"I hope so," Fenton said quietly. He thanked the chief and hung up. He had spent the entire day investigating, and was trying hard not to exceed the speed limit as he drove home. He could not help imagining all manner of horrible things happening to his children. Aside from the fears that the kidnappers had already killed them, he was afraid that his sons were being abused, or mistreated. He knew that he was very likely overreacting, but after that last phone call... 

Fenton shook his head hard, as if to shake these imaginings from his mind. "No," he growled to himself. "No, don't think that. The boys are tough, and they will be all right." It helped. A little. 

There was not very much that Fenton could do from that point on. Collig did promise that he would be allowed to accompany the police on the raid once it happened, but until then, Fenton had to do the hardest thing: wait. 

Every day, Fenton called the station, wanting an update on how the case was going. He knew this was probably annoying Chief Collig, but the chief was being incredibly patient with the worried father. Laura spent a lot of some reassuring her husband, even as worried as she herself was. Even Gertrude was a help, keeping the household running smoothly, cooking most of the meals, and making sure that everyone ate right. She even kept her curt manner curbed, which both Hardy parents appreciated a great deal. 

As it turned out, the investigation did not take as many days as Collig had predicted. The team got lucky on the second day, and actually witnessed a shipment coming in, a shipment that they overheard the workers talking about. And so, the raid was planned, and Fenton was notified. It would take place the next night. That makee six days my kids will have been in the hands of a bunch of ruthless drug runners, Fenton thought that night as he tried to sleep. And he hoped to God that they would be all right by the time he caught up to them. He tried very hard not to think about what could go wrong on this raid; the more time went by, the larger chance he wouldn't see his children again alive. 

Frank and Joe were not happy. After their less than charming conversation with Greasy-Hair, the kidnappers had said very little to the pair the entire time. There was always someone watching them, either right outside the cell, or at the door leading into the cell block. So far as the boys could tell, they were the only ones there. Any questions about what the place was and why it had jail cells in it were ignored. On the other hand, they boys themselves avoided talking about anything when their captors could hear; if they wouldn't give the Hardys information, the Hardys weren't going to give them information! 

Boredom was a big problem; Joe paced the cell on an almost constant basis, being the more hyperactive and impatient of the two. Frank did not pace nearly so often, but it was clear that he, too, was desperate to get out of the hated cell. 

Word games and storytelling only occupied them so far, and they were both going stir crazy, just like before. To make matters worse, they were only getting fed once a day now, and the cuffs on the boys' ankles rubbed enough against their skin that it had opened raw scrapes. Joe only had some minor irritations, as he still had his sneakers and socks, but Frank was barefoot and had no protection from the metal edges. He considered complaining about it, but then he thought about his enemies knowing that he was uncomfortable, and he decided not to grouse about it. Frank was not normally the stubborn one, but on the few times he got the urge, his mulishness could rival Joe's. 

Greasy-Hair did try to find out a couple more times what the boys knew about the operation, but both played dumb, and after a while, they doggedly ignored any questions, and replied instead with a stony glare. Greasy-Hair gave up by the end of the first day. 

At the closing of the third day, Frank was sleeping on the cot, curled up under the blanket, and stirring uneasily in his sleep. Joe was standing near the sink, his arms crossed, a peevish scowl on his face. Jake, the one guarding the boys that night, sat outside the cell, smirking at the irritable child. 

It was nearly ten o'clock when it happened; two groups of SWAT personnel moved in on the place in full force; spreading out through the compound, subduing anyone found within, and breaking into any building that was locked. There was gunfire, eventually, and a lot of shouting... 

Fenton Hardy, Chief Collig, and a few of Bayport's police officers were there with the SWAT teams. Fenton's senses were on hyper alert, his eyes darting about, catching everything that crossed his eyesight. Fenton was not entirely interested in most of the raid, focusing instead on finding his children in all the chaos. "I'm going to look for my sons!" Fenton called over the din. 

Collig nodded tersely, wishing Fenton luck, and the detective peeled off from the main group. Most of the inhabitants of the compound were quite busy enough with the raiding law, and so Fenton was allowed to go on his way with no trouble. He frowned, taking a moment to compose himself and let his training take over a little bit. He pushed his worry for his children out of his head, made his ears muted to the sound of the gunplay and the commotion. Finally he continued, a look of sheer, grim determination on his face. 

Fenton skulked quietly around the compound, looking for the slightest clue that might tell him where his sons were being held captive. Finally, his trained eyes happened upon a smear of dirt on the edge of a door, dirt that upon closer examination ended up being dried mud. It was low, too low for an adult to have put it there unless his legs brushed the doorjamb, and that seemed a little bit unlikely. It seemed a very vague clue, but it was all that Fenton had to work with. 

He crept around the building, looking it over very carefully. It seemed far sturdier than the other buildings, make of brick and stone, rather than wood. There were no windows, only the one door, and that was made of steel. This, if any, Fenton thought, would be where they kept any prisoners. 

The cellblock where the boys were being held was far enough below the ground that none of the noise from the raid could be heard, and so for the moment, its current tenants and their guard knew nothing of the raid. Soon, though, Jake got a call on his radio. 

Outside, Fenton considered his silent steel adversary. There was obviously no way he was going to break down a steel door, and when he tried it, it was locked. "Of course," he muttered, pulling out a small lockpick from his jacket pocket. He pulled out one of the tools, a fairly small one, as the keyhole was not very big. After a few minutes, however, he smiled as a subtle click let him know that he had succeeded in picking the lock. 

The place was not very big, at first glance. The room was about the size of a medium bedroom, with rough carpeting, brick walls, and what looked like elevator doors at one end. He walked over to them, shrugged, and pushed the button. The elevator dinged softly as he began its ascent back to the top. 

Fenton drew his gun, stepped backward and to the left of the doors, and crouched slightly, ready for anything. As it turned out, he needed have bothered; the elevator was empty. Seeing this, he stepped inside and looked at the buttons. Only two, he saw. Down and up. The up button didn't get him anywhere, but the down button closed the doors and sent the elevator car sliding downwards. 

It was a long ride, quite longer than one floor. Whatever was here was far underground, and Fenton's intuition said that this was the correct place. 

The elevator stopped gently, the doors opened, and Fenton stepped out cautiously, his weapon still drawn. There was a short hallway in front of him, gray stone on either side, with a windowless steel door that Fenton guessed led to some sort of secure area. If this is not the place, he thought, then I have wasted a lot of time. 

Taking a big breath and stepping forward, Fenton tried the handle. As Jake had no reason to bar the cellblock itself from outside visitors, it swung in on silent, well-oiled hinges. 

Jake's back was to the door, and he frowned, holding his radio up to his ear. "What is it?" he asked, his voice surly. In the cell, Frank stirred, roused by Jake's annoyed voice. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, to see Joe giving him a very uncertain look. The younger boy's gut was giving him a very bad feeling. 

It was the boss' voice. "All right, Jake, the cops are raiding the place, and we're bailing out, those of us that can, that is. Get rid of the boys and meet us at helipad. If you're not there in five minutes, we're leaving without you." 

Jake nodded, his expression grim. In the cell, the brothers grabbed onto each other, their faces contorted with panic. Surely that didn't mean that he was going to kill them, did it? 

Jake unlocked the cell door and slid it open, taking out his handgun and raised the weapon... 

"NO!" Fenton Hardy cried, sprinting forward with all the speed he could muster. He could have shot the man, but the sickening fear that one of his sons was about to be shot had pushed rational thought from his mind. Badly startled, Jake spun around, his back now to the boys' cell, his eyes wide with alarm. As Fenton closed distance, the man growled, snapping his arm up to aim the barrel of the gun at Fenton's chest, and pulled the trigger. 

The gunshot echoed badly in the enclosed cellblock, making the boys scream, and even making Jake wince at the noise. Fenton sprawled backwards as if he'd been hit with a two-by four, and lay still. Jake smirked and turned back to the cell, where Frank and Joe stared, horrified, at their father so suddenly lying on the concrete floor. 

It was clear that Jake intended to put a bullet in the boys as well, but he had not counted on the sheer fury that possessed the older one at the cold-blooded murder. Frank loosed an incoherent cry of grief and rage, and lunged at the man. He fell short, as Jake had the sense to stay out of the range of the chains that bound the boys, but the utter hatred in Frank's eyes had startled him for a moment. 

However, this moment was all that was needed. Seemingly defying death, Fenton stood behind Jake, lunging forward to tackle the kidnapper to the floor. Taken by surprise, Jake went down, and began fighting to free his gun hand. However, Fenton's anger and his skill were quite enough to keep from getting shot a second time, and after only a minute or so, Jake howled as Fenton broke his trigger finger, wrenching the weapon from his grasp. After that, it was not so difficult a task to get the man subdued and cuffed. 

At that moment, as Frank and Joe stared unbelievingly, the elevator doors opened once more and Chief Collig and two of the Bayport police came rushing into the cell block. Collig looked the situation over then nodded, motioning to his officers to holster their weapons. "Well done, Hardy," Collig said quietly, approaching the detective. "Go ahead," he said, nodding towards the cell. "We'll take care of him." 

Fenton needed no further invitation. He stowed his own weapon and ran into the cell, drawing both boys into a grateful embrace. "Thank God," he whispered as he held them tightly. 

Joe burst into tears and clung to his father, but Frank only stared for a moment. "B-but I-I thought...I thought he -" He also began to cry, the shock of seeing what he had thought was his father's murder sinking in. 

"It's all right," Fenton whispered, smoothing back Frank's hair. "It's okay, Frank, I'm wearing a vest, a bulletproof vest. It didn't hurt me, just knocked me down. It's okay, I'm okay." The vest had protected him from serious harm, it was true, but it had been a fairly powerful firearm, and a very close range. He was going to have a heck of a bruise, and possibly a fracture. 

It was only then that Frank also clung to his father, feeling almost faint with the relief that everything would be all right. 

After several minutes, Fenton reluctantly released his desperate embrace. "Let me get those chains off your legs," he said, showing only a fraction of the anger he felt as seeing what had been done to his children. Frank nodded and let go, holding out his leg for Fenton to remove the cuffs. As any standard handcuff key would fit them, Fenton was able to get them loose. 

Frank was freed, but Joe was entirely unwilling to surrender his grasp on Fenton. Fenton did not try to convince him, only shifted his position so he could get to the restraint. Soon, both boys were unfettered, and once again holding onto their father as if he might fly from their grasp. 

"Come on, boys," said Fenton quietly, carefully standing up. He kept his arms around Frank and Joe. "Come on, kids, let's get out of here, eh?" 

He got absolutely no argument from the boys as he led them from the cellblock. He shot Collig a look of sheer gratitude as they passed him. "I'm going to take the boys to get checked out by a doctor," he told the chief. "I know you'll need their statements about the whole thing, but can it wait?" 

"Absolutely," Collig said with a bit of a smile. He let the Hardys use the elevator to leave the building before he and the other two officers transported their prisoner up. 

Things seemed to have happened fairly fast above, and what criminals had not been shoved into squad cars and prisoner transports were on their bellies with their hands cuffed behind them or clasped on their heads. The Hardys paid little attention to this as they headed for Fenton's car and got inside. 

Both Frank and Joe wanted to sit up front with their father, and so Fenton got them both in the front seat, and buckled them in. He sent off a quick call on his cell phone to Laura, telling her the boys were safe and they were on their way to the doctor's, and then home. Laura mentioned that the doctor's offices were closed, and Fenton said he would take them to the emergency room, then, as he did want them looked over tonight. She said all right, and that she would meet them at home. 

Once that was done, Fenton looked the boys over. "Are you two all right?" he asked quietly. He looked mostly at Joe as he said this. 

"I-I'm okay," said Frank. "Just a little sore. And hungry." 

Joe shrugged, looking a bit dazed. "I'm okay now," he said. "Just...I just kinda hurt." He looked at Fenton. "Hurt is more than sore," he explained." He _had_ had three days to heal some, and although his skin was colorful, the swelling had gone down and the welts weren't raised anymore. 

Fenton nodded. "Understandable. I'm still gonna take you to get looked over, okay? Then we'll go home, get you cleaned up, get some good food in you." He noted the look of eagerness at this idea, and he wondered just how well they'd been fed the last three days. He started up the car and left. 

During the three hour trip back to Bayport, Fenton listened as his sons relayed to him the entire story of what had happened on the last day of school. Fenton listened, encouraging them by not interrupting, and simply listening to their tale. He was very angry at the boys' mistreatment, but he did not show this to his sons. 

When they finished, Fenton laid a hand on Joe's head, as he was closest the driver's seat. "Boys, I'm very proud of you," he said. "You showed real courage, and real cleverness too, escaping like you did. Your escape led us to some important clues." The boys beamed at this praise, and Fenton went on. "The people that kidnapped you will be put in jail, and so will most of the people that were there. You know what they were doing, right?" 

"I-I thought they might be smugglers, or...or maybe they were running guns or something," Frank said. 

"Those are excellent guesses," said Fenton. "But it wasn't weapons, it was drugs. That was one of the biggest drug rings around this area in a very long time. And you guys helped take them down." Again, he was rewarded by the smiles of his boys, Joe's more smug, Frank's a bit more shy. Fenton sighed. "But for now, we're getting food, rest, and a bit of medical attention." 

Once back in Bayport, Fenton did indeed take the boys into the emergency room of the local hospital, one that the Hardys always used if anyone were in need of one. It was a slow night, and so although it was not an emergency, a medic who introduced himself as Doctor Carls came to look at the boys fairly quickly. They were seated up on an examination cot, while the doctor gave them a thorough once-over. Frank had come through with only a few bruises and his sprained arm, which the doctor put an Ace bandage around. "I expect you not to use that arm a lot for the next few days, son," he said to Frank. "For about a week, in fact. After that, just be careful. It should be mostly healed, but only you know when it's not sore anymore." Frank nodded his acknowledgement. 

Joe was looked over a little more intensely, as it was obvious he'd been through worse. Carls had Joe take off his shirt, and looked him over from head to toe. "I'd actually like to get some x-rays on him," he said to Fenton, after Joe told him his sides hurt. "He might have a few fractures." 

Fenton agreed, and Joe was taken down to the room. Frank had wanted to go along, but was told that only the patient and the doctor were allowed in the rooms where the x-rays were being taken. Another doctor had taken Joe to the x-ray chamber, and so Doctor Carls spent some time explaining to Frank how the x-rays worked, and why it was dangerous for other people to be in there. Frank understood, he supposed, but he still disliked being separated from his brother, especially after what they had been through. 

But of course Joe was returned safe and sound, and was lifted back up onto the bed. "Well, it'll be a little while before the x-rays come through, but otherwise young Joe here will be all right. It seems he's mostly got bruises. They've both got some lacerations on their ankle, but they're not infected, I'll just clean them really well and bandage them. Other than the physical injuries, they're a bit malnourished and exhausted. They could use some food and a lot of rest." 

Fenton nodded. "Thanks, Doctor," he said, as Doctor Carls went about cleaning the raw scrapes on the boys' ankles. 

"You're very welcome," said the doctor as he finished up. "I'm gonna go check on those x-rays." 

He left the Hardys alone, and Fenton went over and put his arms around the brothers. "You've no idea how relieved and grateful I am that we found you," he said. "I was terrified down in that cell block. I was terrified I wouldn't get to you in time." 

Frank nodded. "U-us too." 

The older boy sighed and leaned against his father, but Joe stared in astonishment. "You were afraid?" 

"Absolutely. Yes, grown-ups can be afraid. It happens a lot more than most people think." He chuckled a bit, gently ruffling Joe's hair. 

"Oh..." Joe yawned, and looked blearily around. He really wanted to sleep. "Are...are _you_ okay?" he asked. 

Fenton nodded. "Yes, I am." He would investigate the damage he had taken later, but he was beginnign to think he would only bruise from the gunshot he'd taken. He thanked the powers that were for the one who had invented bulletproof vests. 

The doctor came back then and proclaimed Joe free of fractures. "Remember," he said to the boys. "Rest." 

"We will," Frank said as Fenton helped them down from the bed. 

The doctor nodded, and shook their hands. "Take care then, okay? I don't want to see you in here again." He winked at them, and waved as they left the room. 

The scene at the Hardys' home was a bit chaotic. Laura cried, and hugged her sons, and spent several moments thanking God for their safe return. Gertrude fussed over them, insisting that they needed to get cleaned up before they got sick, and that they needed some food in them, good, healthy food. Frank and Joe let themselves be passed around for a bit, and both were greedily taking in the sight of their own living room. Joe began to cry a little again, and Frank simply let himself be grateful. 

Once the chaos settled a little bit, Laura did look her boys over thoroughly, expressed her anger at how they'd been treated, and then began to usher them upstairs. While Frank took his turn in the bath, she went about getting some clean clothes, hesitated, and got out their pajamas. They were comfortable and light. Joe sat on Frank's bed and watched wearily. Laura kept going over to him to hug him, or brush his hair from his forehead, or kiss his brow. While under most circumstances, Joe would at least complain about such treatment, today he was more than willing to receive it. When Frank got out of the bath, his hair damp, he looked one hundred percent better. Joe looked absolutely filthy in comparison. He crept into the bath while Frank got dressed in his pajamas. 

Very soon, everyone was seated at the table, eating a good, hot meal provided by Aunt Gertrude. The brothers ate ravenously, and both of them had seconds. Joe even had thirds, and ended up stuffing himself silly. He didn't mind, though, it was nice to feel full! And no one told them to slow down or not to eat too much, either. 

Little was said of the boys' adventures at the table. Frank and Joe were too busy eating, and the adults were too busy reassuring themselves that the children were home, safe. 

After dessert, which consisted of an upside down cake that Gertrude had made, the boys were just about falling asleep at the table. They were both guided upstairs, where they were put to bed. Joe said he wanted to sleep with Frank, and Frank readily agreed. Once the boys were tucked into the warm bed, Laura went back down to where her husband still sat at the table, his head in one hand. "Come on, Fenton," said Laura quietly. "Let's get to bed. There'll be time tomorrow for stories. I'll want to hear the entire tale." 

Fenton hesitated, but when he looked up, his elder sister was giving him a stern look, her hands on her hips. "Go on," she said firmly. "I'll take care of the dishes." 

Fenton laughed a bit. "Okay," he said, surrendering. "Okay." 


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

The next day was busy. Frank and Joe were allowed to sleep in fairly late, then roused gently for breakfast. Frank woke looking a little bewildered, and then laughed delightedly when he realized that he was home. He hugged Fenton and scrambled out of bed, proclaiming that he was hungry enough to eat an entire table full of food. Fenton chuckled and told him he would have to settle for a plate or two of bacon and eggs. Frank said that'd work, and left for downstairs. 

Joe did not say anything when he got up, only looked at Fenton for a few moments as if he were an alien. Joe looked like he might not have slept as well as his brother did. After a moment, he confessed to Fenton that he'd had bad dreams. 

Fenton picked the little boy up and hugged him for a few moments. "I don't doubt it," he told him. "I sometimes have bad dreams because of things that happen while I'm on a case." 

Joe goggled at him. "You do?" 

Fenton smiled at the incredulous look on Joe's face. "Unfortunately, yes. Bad dreams aren't limited to kids, I'm afraid." He gently mussed Joe's already wild hair. "But that's okay. They'll fade. Tell ya what. I'll camp up here tonight, eh? See if we can't convince those dreams that they're not welcome here." 

Joe grinned a little, and nodded. 

"Then it's settled. In the meantime, let's get some breakfast. We've got to go down to the police station and give statements." He set Joe down, but kept a hold of his hand. He sighed quietly, looking at the boy's colorful skin. Sometimes he wished that he had a license to kill, like James Bond. It was a horrible thing to think, and he never told anyone, but that didn't stop him thinking it. 

Breakfast was fairly traditional, bacon and eggs, but Frank and Joe declared it the best breakfast in the world. After nearly a week of the less-than-fantastic fare they'd been given, this was not surprising. 

When the boys were finished eating, and got dressed, Fenton pulled Frank aside. "I just want to say I'm proud of you, son," he said, making Frank cock his head and give him an inquiring look. Fenton had already said that, to the both of them, the previous day, after all. The detective smiled. "For taking care of Joe. I know you were very sacred, yourself, but you still took care of him, and I am proud of that." He smiled, seeing the look of modest pleasure at this praise, and reached out to hug the boy. "Come on, let's head down to the police station. You guys still need to tell the chief what went on." 

Frank nodded. "Okay." He and Joe were ushered into the car, again sharing the front seat, and they all headed for the station. 

The chief was there, of course, and he greeted the Hardy's cordially, in an exceptionally good mood. "Figured you would be in today," said the chief. "Come to give your statements?" 

Fenton nodded. "And hopefully to hear how things turned out, if that's possible." 

"It is possible," the chief said. "Let's go back into my office." 

There were only two chairs in the chief's office, save for the one behind the desk, so Frank and Joe crammed into one of them. It took some creative arranging, but they both managed to fit with minimal discomfort. Collig chuckled at the spectacle. "All right, boys, I need to know the story, everything that happened. I'm going to be recording you, okay?" He indicated a small, digital sound recorder on the desk, and switched it on. "Brought this up this morning, since I knew you'd be in today." 

The two boys looked at each other, and Joe shrugged. "You go first," said Frank, feeling a little shy, especially about being recorded. 

"Okay." And so Joe spun the tale, which was laced with colorful insults towards the bad guys, some anger, and a good deal of indignation. It was accurate enough, but one of the more interesting statements the chief had ever taken. It was amazing how creative kids could get with the insults without uttering a single swear word. 

Once Joe was done, it was Frank's turn. Hearing his brother's report seemed to give him a bit more nerve, and so he wasn't nervous when he told his version of the story. Of course the two tales coincided, although Frank's was a little more objectively related. 

The chief smiled at the boys once they were done, and clicked off the recorder. "Very good, boys." He shook his head, looking a bit amused, a bit disapproving. "Rash, though, I've got to say. Don't know why I'm surprised; you're Fenton's sons, after all." 

Frank and Joe looked a little bit uncertainly at their father, who was simply smirking a bit. He was the first to admit there were times when he _had_ acted without a whole lot of foresight, and sometimes ended up doing something pretty stupid. 

Collig continued. "But I will say this: you were certainly courageous, and I'm fairly impressed with how you two handled the whole thing." 

This compliment made Frank turn red about the cheeks, and made Joe beam brightly. "Thanks!" Joe exclaimed. 

Frank nodded in agreement, then changed the subject. "So what happened to the bad guys?" he asked. 

Collig sighed, shaking his head despairingly. "Another trait you inherited, a tendency to be exceedingly nosy." But it was clear he was only teasing. Fenton snorted in reply to this. "We did manage to get them all, at least the ones that were at the compound. The guys in the chopper caught five or so of them trying to escape in their own chopper, but a few guns pointed their way and the assurance that our choppers could fly rings around theirs convinced them to give up without much resistance. Everyone is now tucked away in a nice, cozy prison cell." 

Frank and Joe, particularly, looked rather satisfied with this information. "Yeah, see how they like it!" Joe exclaimed. A good night's sleep in his own bed and the reassurance that he was home safe had done wonders to restore the boy's spirits. 

"There'll be a trial," the chief went on, "and you boys will very likely be called as witnesses. Because of your youth, your interviews will likely be done in a private room." 

"Aww," said Joe, his tone disappointed. "We won't get to go up on the witness stand?" 

Collig blinked. "Well, I suppose so," he said. "I guess that's ultimately up to the judge. Most kids would be intimidated by the whole courtroom thing." 

"We wouldn't," said Frank earnestly. 

"They are capable of handling such, I believe," said Fenton. "I would be okay with it." 

Collig shrugged. "Then I don't see a problem with it. I don't see why the judge would not agree. But at any rate, there'll be a trial. The higher-ups are being held without bail, although some of the peons are being allowed out pending the trial so long as there's someone that can arrange the bail money." He looked seriously at Fenton. "I would strongly suggest keeping the boys around the house until the trial." He looked down at the boys, whom he fully expected to protest this statement. "And this has nothing to do with your youth. They already went after you once, there's no reason they would not do so again, if only to keep you from testifying." 

Joe looked a little rebellious, but even he saw the wisdom of this. "I guess," he said. 

"Now that's not to say you have to be grounded to your home," Collig said, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Just that you should probably have an adult with you wherever you happen to be." 

"What about Berkley?" Fenton asked. In the excitement, he never had asked how things had gone between Collig and the corrupt detective. 

"Astonishingly enough, he surrendered without a fight, when confronted with Riley's story. He just sort of shrugged and said, 'You win some, you lose some.' He's not actually one of the group, but he was taking bribes." Collig shook his head. "Any cop that turns crooked is worse than the criminals, in my opinion." 

"A hypocrite, if nothing else," Fenton agreed." 

Collig leaned back in his chair, and added, "Oh, and that compound they were using. I did some research on the place. Apparently until fairly recently, it had been used as a sort of home base for some sort of strange Armageddon cult. About five years ago, this drug ring purchased the property and have been using it for their own home base since. The area's been built up a whole lot since then." 

"Weird," said Frank, and Joe asked what an Armageddon cult was. 

Fenton explained first what Armageddon was, and then that there were people who firmly believed that it was nearly upon the world, and stockpiled food, water, and supplies. They holed up in bunkers, in the hopes of surviving whatever it was that would end the world. 

"Well, said Collig. "Unless you've any more questions, I believe we're finished here." 

The Hardys stood, and Fenton and the chief shook hands. "Thanks, Chief," said Fenton. 

Collig waved it off. "No need. It's my duty, you know. I've got to get my hand in things once in a while or I'll lose my edge." He bent slightly to shake the boys' hands as well. "Be careful, guys." 

"We will," the brothers replied in unison. The Hardys left amongst a "jinx-double jinx" competition from having spoken together. 

That night, Fenton did, indeed, camp out with the boys. Frank and Joe shared Frank's bed again, and Fenton borrowed Joe's hammock. Before turning his bedside lamp off, Frank looked at his brother and grinned. "You know what?" he said quietly. 

"What?" 

"We're gonna be great detectives!' 

Joe grinned slowly and raised his fist in the air. "Yeah!" he agreed. "We'll be the best in the world!" 

He got no argument from Frank, and with this thought in mind, the Hardy boys settled down into sleep. 


End file.
